


168 Hours

by TheJediAreGay



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24302707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJediAreGay/pseuds/TheJediAreGay
Summary: When Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian are kidnapped, Bruce is given a chilling message - find them in a week's time or he won't find them at all. While he tears the city apart searching for them, the boys struggle to survive their week in captivity.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 106
Kudos: 689





	1. Dick

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic of mine I wrote all the way back in 2014 that I found on my flashdrive and decided to edit and post on here. If you recognize it, it's because I originally posted it on fanfiction.net back in the day. Because of how long ago I wrote it, Duke isn't in it. Rest assured I see Duke as just as much a member of the family as the rest of the batkids, but I wasn't able to work him into the story. :( All that being said, I hope you guys enjoy!

_**167** _

Darkness.

Darkness as far as the eye can see – or, rather, _can’t_ see.

In this moment, that’s all Dick Grayson knows.

When his eyes flutter open, he’s surrounded by darkness that seems never ending, yet he feels claustrophobic. Like he can sense that whatever room he’s in, it’s small. Even though he can’t see the walls, he can practically feel them closing in on him.

And for just a small moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Dick reaches his hands up shakily, threading one through his sweat-soaked hair as he tries to control his breathing to keep from passing out. His head pounds like someone’s taking a hammer to it. His back itches from being propped up against what feels to be a scratchy wall, possibly made of brick. His legs are bound and heavy like lead. _Everything_ is heavy.

Where the hell is he?

He searches through his brain, trying to grab onto the last lucid memory he can find floating around in his consciousness.

He knows he was on patrol. He knows he was cutting through an alley to chase a criminal. He knows he felt something fly by and prick him on the neck – soft, barely there, like a bug biting him before flying away.

Then, the next thing he knew, he was waking up here.

He’s been taken.

 _That_ he’s sure of.

How did this happen to him? He’s always aware of his surroundings while on patrol. He should have sensed whoever was shooting that dart filled with sedative. He should have been able dodge, or at least get a look at his attacker before he passed out. Whoever got the better of him that quickly must be good.

 _Scary_ good.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, all he knows is that he feels groggy, as if he’s been sleeping for a thousand years. He must have been out for a while, which means that time is of the essence. So, he pushes all thoughts of panic aside and focuses on something else. He thinks of his siblings. He thinks of Babs. He thinks of Bruce. Whatever can distract him and help motivate him to come up with a reason to get out of this.

Has Bruce noticed he’s missing yet? Has Damian? Tim? Or have they just assumed he’s too busy to shoot them a text? Oh god, what if they never notice he’s gone? What if he dies alone in this little room?

Once again, he has to steady his breathing so he doesn’t go into a full-blown panic attack. He’s usually more composed in these situations. He’s had years of experience when it comes to kidnappings. That sedative must have done a number on him.

Out of instinct, he kicks his legs out, as if to escape the tight binds. Logically, he knows he’s not going to escape. He’s bound too tightly. But it’s worth a shot, right?

He retracts his feet the second he feels them come into contact with something soft, like human flesh.

Then comes the pained groan.

Someone is in here with him.

“Fuck…” the voice hisses, heavy with sleep. Even though the tone is twisted, Dick swears he recognizes the voice…

Jason.

Dick’s heart sinks as soon as he identifies the body in here with him. _No_. Not his brother. Anyone but him.

He knows Jason is not a poor fragile creature in the least – hell, he pities their captors if Jason gets loose – but he’s one of the _last_ people Dick wants to see stuck in this position. Even if it lowers his own chances of escape, he’d rather be stuck here alone than be stuck here with his brother. Because if something happens to him, the family will be alright, but if something happens to _Jason…_

He’d rather die than allow that to happen. He _won’t_ allow that to happen. Over his dead body. Whoever has them has to go through him first. And he’ll put up one hell of a fight.

“Red Hood?” Dick rasps out, his voice scratchy like sandpaper. God, it stings. When did he last have something to drink? He doesn’t even know how long he’s been unconscious. For all he knows, his last drink could have been days ago.

There’s a brief moment of silence that fills the stuffy room before Jason finally whispers,

“Grayson? They got to you too?”

Dick nods frantically, even though Jason can’t see him in the dark room. He’s just relieved Jason sounds unharmed.

“Yeah, they did. Whoever _they_ are. Let me guess; you were on patrol when a dart flew past you and pricked you on the neck?”

Jason grumbles back, “Yeah, that about sums it up. I didn’t even notice anyone. They just –,”

“Came out of nowhere?” Dick finishes for him. Jason lets out of a heavy sigh, and even though Dick can’t see him, he’s sure that he’s running a hand through his hair; a habit of his. Dick’s hands aren’t cuffed, so he’s assuming Jason’s aren’t either. It’s odd. Why were their legs tied up, but their wrists left untouched?

“Spot on, Golden Boy. Whoever got us definitely wasn’t working –,”

“ _Ow!_ ” a sudden, loud voice interrupts. Dick jumps in his spot, steadying himself against the wall with his hands, as if ready for an attack even though he has no way of defending himself. His urge to protect his brother spurs him on. He’d die before he’d let someone touch Jason.

“Who kicked me?” the same, familiar groggy voice speaks up. Dick resists the urge to scream.

_Tim._

They took Tim too. Now Dick has _two_ brothers in the exact same spot as him. Two people to protect.

“Red Robin?” Dick speaks up. “Red Robin, it’s me, Nightwing. Are you okay?”

Even while his brain is still fuzzy, Dick has enough sense to keep up code names. If there’s one thing Bruce was able to drill into his head, it’s no names in the field.

Tim groans softly, his voice farther away than Jason’s. He must be on the opposite side of the room, while Jason is in the middle of the two. Just from this information, Dick guesses that the room can’t be that large. Not closet size, but it’s not exactly a full room.

“My head is pounding and someone just kicked me in the side pretty hard, but I’ve had worse,” Tim answers, sounding as groggy and distracted as Jason did when he woke up. “Where _are_ we?”

“We don’t know,” Dick answers in a gentle tone. “But I promise, I’ll get you out of this. Don’t you –,”

“Hold up,” Jason interrupts suddenly.

“Red Hood? Is that you? I didn’t know –,”

“I didn’t kick you, and Nightwing didn’t kick you… So who the hell else is here?”

“ _Me, you idiot._ ”

Dick shuts his eyes in frustration, silently simmering in anger. The bastards took Damian too. They somehow managed to take him right out from under Bruce’s nose. On patrol too, if these kidnappers stick to a pattern. His ten year old baby brother. They probably took his utility belt too. That’s always what kidnappers did to Dick when _he_ was Robin.

Dick resists the urge to growl. If he ever gets his hands on their captors, they’re going to regret ever laying eyes on his family.

“Now is _not_ the time to be getting an attitude, demon brat,” Tim spits. Dick rolls his eyes. Great. That’s just what they need right now. A fight.

Aren’t they supposed to be pulling together now, not apart?

“It’s not my fault you managed to get yourself kidnapped, Red!” Damian shoots back, his tone dripping with anger. “Don’t blame _me_!”

“Would you two please _shut the hell up_?” Jason growls. “You’re not helping our –,”

Without warning, the darkness is lifted. Sterile white overhead lights switch on, flooding the room with blinding white light, like a doctor’s office. Dick’s eyes burn from the sudden change, prompting him to look down and blink rapidly as his vison tries to adjust to the change in lighting.

_“I see you boys are finally up. It’s been quite some time.”_

Dick freezes.

The voice came from above. There must be an intercom system in the room. They’re hearing the voice of their captor.

Or the voice of _one_ of their captors.

Dick’s eyes finally adjust enough to take a look around at his brothers. Thankfully, none of them are that injured beyond a few bruises marring their skin. Their looks are haggard, though nothing that could be cause for too much concern. But just as he suspected, all of them are weaponless, beltless, and shoeless. Not many captors are smart enough to take their shoes. This one went to extra lengths.

That’s a bad sign already.

As for the room, it’s relatively what Dick expected. Not too large, but not too small. It’s entirely bare; the floor is white tile and the walls are plain white drywall, not brick like Dick originally thought. But Dick notices one peculiar thing.

There is no door.

Only a large, rusty looking dumbwaiter embedded in one of the walls.

“What do you bastards want?!” Jason screams up to the ceiling, enraged. Damian glares at him, as if willing him to shut up before he gets them into even more trouble.

_“Oh, a million dollars, peace on earth, the end of world hunger. You know, the usual.”_

Whoever’s talking to them is using a voice modifier. That Dick is sure of. No one has a voice that deep. But with or without a voice modifier, amusement bleeds through his words. He’s _enjoying_ this.

“Why are we here?” Tim asks, much more calm than Jason was.

_“You’ll see, Little Bird. Oh, you will see.”_

Dick growls, unable to stop himself. The man who took him and his brothers using _his_ nickname for Tim in that sickeningly sweet tone makes his stomach turn over. He can’t explain it, but there’s something deviant about that man – something besides the obvious.

And how does he know that nickname?

“Let them _go_ ,” Dick hisses up at the intercom. “I don’t care what you do with me. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t hurt them.”

 _“Nightwing, Nightwing, Nightwing…”_ the man scolds in a teasing tone that makes Dick want to vomit. _“You should know better than that. I’m well aware that this isn’t your first rodeo. But, I can promise you, it will be the most interesting. For all of you.”_

A cold, cruel laugh rings out. One that shakes Dick to his very core. From the look on his brothers’ faces, it freaks them out too. It sound evil.

Demonic.

They’re dealing with a psychopath, and a smart one at that. No doubt.

_“Enjoy the next week, boys, because it may very well be your last.”_


	2. Damian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting such a positive reaction to just one chapter, thank you all so much! I was also shocked to see how many of you read this when I posted it on FFN back in the day. I just wanna reiterate for everyone that I'm the original author, and I posted this on FFN in 2014, so if you recognize it, it's not because I stole it. Do you guys think I should put in the summary that I originally posted this on FFN? I don't want to get the story reported because someone thinks I stole it. I guess that's something for me to consider. Hope you enjoy!

_**166** _

Damian sulks in the corner, simmering in anger as his brothers – if he can even call them that – all lean against their respective walls, their heads slumped to the side in defeat. He can see the sweat lining Drake’s forehead, the nervous twitches of Grayson’s neck, the look of pure murder still set on Todd’s maskless face, and the bruises that have blossomed on all their necks. Damian’s sure that it’s on his neck too.

He scowls at the thought. How _any one_ managed to get the better of him, he’s not sure of. He’s always been too good for that, too skilled to be caught in this situation. He doesn’t understand how they captured Grayson either. His former Batman has gotten the two of them out of more precarious situations than Damian would care to admit. Even Todd, with his League training, should have been able to spot someone aiming a dart at his neck.

It’s really no surprise Drake is here, though.

Damian doesn’t remember much. He remembers he and Father were on patrol. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There was a hostage situation and the two got temporarily separated for a reason Damian doesn’t even remember. Father probably told him to stay behind, totally against sending him into the scene. _As usual._ A few minutes later, Damian somehow ended up at the back of the building, disobeying his father’s orders. Batman may not have known it, but he needed Robin’s help, and Damian wasn’t just about to let his father’s stubbornness stop him from having his back.

Then he felt something fly past and prick his neck, just slightly. So slight he thought nothing of it. Until blackness took over. It happened so fast, he didn’t have time to think. One minute everything was normal and the next, he was falling into darkness. Then he woke up here, groggy and sore and surrounded by these bumbling idiots.

He could find a chance to escape on his own. He’s sure of it. But the presence of others throws a wrench in his plans. There’s no way he can leave them here and save himself. Even if he comes back with his father to try and save the others, it will most likely be too late. He’s well aware of what kidnappers do when one person in a group of people escapes. So he’ll just have to stay here and suffer through their pitiful attempts at teamwork.

But without a utility belt, gloves, or even his shoes, he doesn’t have much in terms of defending himself. He doesn’t even have a way of untying the binds on his ankles. He already checked; his hidden knives are all gone. Even the ones no other kidnappers he’s ever faced have managed to find. These captors must have patted him down thoroughly.

The thought makes his scowl deepen. It feels like a violation. He hates the thought of some scumbags searching his clothing for hidden weapons – especially considering some of those weapons were hidden in compartments _inside_ his clothing.

_Creeps._

“Do you think they’re listening to us?” Drake asks, breaking the long-standing silence.

Damian’s eyes dart around the sterile looking white room on instinct. _Are_ they listening to everything they say? They’ve been careful, only using their aliases. At least, he thinks so. He was the last one to wake up. One of them could have made a mistake while still groggy from sedation and he would never know it. The consequences of that… he doesn’t even want to think about it. Father would be furious.

“It’s probably safest to assume that they are,” Grayson suggests. “Either they have this room bugged or they have cameras hidden somewhere. Or both. Either way, they could tell when we all woke up. There’s _some_ sort of device in here.”

Damian looks around, hoping that if there are cameras in here, they catch his glare. He _wants_ them to know that he’s angry. He wants them to know he’s not scared of them. He hopes they see the silent threat in his eyes. He _will_ take them down. Whether that’s tomorrow or in a week from now, they’re going to wish they were never born. That he’s sure of.

“How will we make any tactical plans knowing they’re probably listening to every word we say?” Drake asks.

“Well, we can’t,” Grayson answers. “They’ve already taken too many precautions _not_ to bug the room. There’s a 99.9% chance that they’re listening to everything we say. We can’t formulate a plan out loud without them hearing us and finding out how we operate, and at that point, they already have the advantage.”

“So what you’re saying is, we’re basically screwed,” Todd supplies for him.

Damian glares at him. He’s given up _already_? Pathetic. Damian refuses to give up until he’s taking his last dying breath. And even then, he’ll still be fighting tooth and nail.

“Don’t be so quick to give in, Red Hood,” Damian snaps. “We _will_ find a way out of this. Somehow. Even if we can’t speak. We have a week to put our heads together, and no matter how thick yours is, I’m sure we can squeeze _some_ valid ideas out of it.”

Todd glares back at him in return.

“Gee, thanks kid. I’m so flattered.”

In his peripheral vision, Damian sees Drake with a grin on his lips.

“I’m sure if they _are_ listening to us, they’re very entertained,” he jokes half-heartedly.

Grayson lets out a half-laugh of sorts that sounds like it could be a snort. Maybe it’s dehydration making him loopy, or maybe he’s just lost his mind, but Damian finds himself grinning a tiny bit as well.

_“Yes, you are correct about that. You four are better than television.”_

The grin dies just as quickly as it was born.

“Bastards!” Damian barks.

He hopes that maybe, if he’s insolent enough, whoever is speaking to them will come and punish him themselves. Then he’ll be able to go in for the attack.

 _“Tsk, tsk,”_ the distorted voice teases, making Damian grit his teeth in anger. He hates nothing more than being scolded like a child.

_“Such harsh language for a child. Do we have to wash your mouth out with soap, Baby Bat?”_

Damian can see Grayson clenching his jaw in anger as soon as ‘Baby Bat’ is projected over the intercom. It’s not much of a surprise. In fact, Damian briefly questions if their captor said that just to get to Grayson. For some reason he’s never been able to fathom, Grayson is his angriest and most ruthless when whoever they’re fighting threatens Damian. Maybe it’s because Damian is the youngest, maybe it’s because they he was once the Robin to Grayson’s Batman, or maybe there’s a different reason entirely. From some of the things their captor has said already said, it’s like he already knows and is trying to provoke a reaction out of Grayson.

“Go to hell,” Damian snaps.

The voice only laughs coldly.

_“Oh Baby Bat, you’re one to talk about Hell when you have all those kills under your belt.”_

_How did he…?_

Damian’s tries to wipe the look of shock off his face. His assassin background is not common knowledge to the public or any enemies of his, excluding those who have worked with the League. _No one_ should know. So for this man to know his past…

Could he possibly be tied to the League of Assassins?

No, that’s impossible. This isn’t their usual M.O.

Todd seems to scoot closer to him, as if subconsciously protecting him against the man speaking to them. A useless action, as their captor isn’t physically present. But Damian finds himself inexplicably appreciative of it.

“You must not have done your homework,” Todd speaks to the ceiling. “ _I’m_ the one who kills in this family. Bats would never let his Robin break the golden rule.”

 _Except he has,_ Damian mentally corrects him.

He killed NoBody while he was Robin, which none of them have been informed about. Father promised not to tell them. Otherwise, he’s been successful at curbing the instinct to kill. But the man didn’t say ‘kill’. He said ‘kills’. There’s no doubt in his mind that this man knows his real identity.

And if he knows his, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume he knows everyone’s.

Which means that even when – _if –_ they get out, they still won’t be safe. Not as long as their captor is alive.

 _“Playing innocent will do you no good,”_ the voice taunts. _“I know the boy is a cold-blooded killing machine. I admire his work, really. He’s a truly talented little boy. I would_ love _to see him in action.”_

Something about his tone makes Damian shudder. He can’t really explain it – the man just sounds way too excited. Too _happy_. He enjoys this far too much.

He can see that Grayson noticed it too. His jaw is set, his shoulders squared like he’s prepared to lash out, and his eyes aflame. Even Todd and Drake look unsettled by the way the man was talking about him.

“Stay away from him,” Grayson hisses, malice evident in his tone.

Damian’s taken aback. He’s never heard Grayson talk that way, even to the criminals he fights.

Todd squirms around in his binds, glaring up at the ceiling like if he gazes long enough, it will burst into flames.

“When I get out of here, you’re gonna see _me_ in action,” Todd promises. “Lay one hand on any of them and you’re dead.”

 _“Oh, so if I_ don’t _touch your brothers, you’ll spare me?”_ the voice teases. _“How merciful of you.”_

Todd clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing. Damian swears he can see him shaking in anger.

“Let me rephrase that,” he grounds out. “Touch any of them and I’ll make your death nice and slow. I’ll draw it out as long as possible until you beg for me to put a bullet through your head.”

 _Not if I beat you to it,_ Damian thinks.

 _“Keep dreaming, Hood,”_ the man scoffs, sounding terribly unimpressed with Todd’s threat. _“You’re not in the position to be threatening me. I can kill you with the snap of my fingers. All I have to do is tell one of my men to pull the trigger on that sniper I have pointed at your temple and BAM – your brains will add some much needed color to the walls.”_

Four sharp inhales of breath happen simultaneously.

Damian doesn’t want to believe him. He sees no possible way a sniper could have Todd in his scope. There are no windows or doors in the room. The only thing there is a dumbwaiter. Albeit a very large dumbwaiter that could probably fit a grown man.

But it’s hard not to believe him when he’s repeatedly proved to be one step ahead of them.

“You’re bluffing,” Todd insists, his eyes darting around the room analytically.

The man chuckles softly, as if he’s talking to a child. Damian scowls. He hates the condescending criminals most of all.

 _“Am I?”_ he asks jokingly. _“Take a look around you. Do you see the holes in each wall?”_

Each of them scans the room, eyes darting from wall to wall. Sure enough, there’s a small, brush-handle sized hole poked in each piece of drywall, too high up for any of them to have noticed immediately. How he didn’t spot it while initially scanning the room, Damian isn’t sure. He feels like smacking himself for not being as observant as he should have been. Drake, Todd, and even Grayson occasionally make stupid mistakes like that. _He_ doesn’t. He was raised never to make mistakes.

_“Currently, I have three snipers pointed at Hood, Little Bird, and the Golden Boy.”_

Damian narrows his eyes in suspicion. If he doesn’t have a sniper waiting for him, there _has_ to be a reason. The kidnapper hasn’t played all his cards yet.

_“Even if you move, the bullets are bound to ricochet off the tile floor and with a room that size, I wouldn’t want to take my chances with where it was going to hit.”_

Grayson moves in front of Todd almost automatically, trying in vain to shield his brother from the oncoming attack. Damian resists the urge to roll his eyes. Grayson is always so quick to throw himself in front of the danger to protect others, but he has no idea that his own value far outweighs that of most people.

Damian would rather die _again_ than let Grayson get hurt protecting him.

“What do you _want_?” Grayson hisses.

 _“Simple,”_ the man answers. _“I want the Baby Bat.”_

Damian’s breath catches in his throat, his legs seizing up automatically.

It makes sense all of the sudden. He knows that one of them will cooperate if the other three have guns pointed to their heads. There’s no sniper on Damian because his punishment for not following their kidnapper’s demands will be watching the others die.

“Why?” Drake asks.

Damian briefly wonders why Drake even cares.

 _“Because I said so,”_ he replies snappily. _“Make your choice, Baby Bat. Either crawl your way inside that dumbwaiter or your brothers will pay the price.”_

“Don’t do it!” Grayson insists, trying to scoot his way over to Damian, intending to stop him. He’s more willing to get a bullet in his brain than to let Damian be taken away from him.

For a brief second, Damian tried to imagine Grayson with a bullet hole through his head. He tries to imagine those bright blue eyes glazed over and unseeing under his mask, his body stiff and cold, a pool of blood forming around him.

The image makes him shudder.

Even when he replaces the image of Grayson with that of Todd or Drake, the result is the same. The thought of them dead – because of _him_ – shakes him to his core. He has no doubt their captor would keep him alive afterwards, just to make him sit there in his brothers’ blood and know it was all his fault.

He’s never considered them his brothers before, except Grayson. Even then, he’s never wanted them dead. Not even Drake, as annoying as he is. Hasn’t Grayson always lectured him about how “families don’t end with blood”?

Every fiber of his being screams at him _not_ to get in that dumbwaiter. It’s suicide. Whatever they plan on doing to him, it won’t be pleasant. That’s a given. But at the same time, he wants to get in that dumbwaiter. He _needs_ to. If it spares Grayson, Todd, and Drake a bullet to the head, then it’s worth it.

It’s what they would do for him.

With that thought spurring him on, Damian braces himself against the wall, standing up to full height and pushing himself backwards into the dumbwaiter.

Grayson tries to lunge for him, but he’s not quick enough.

Damian is plunged into darkness as the dumbwaiter races upwards.


	3. Bruce

_**144** _

Bruce hasn’t seen his sons in a whole 24 hours.

1,440 minutes.

86,400 seconds.

No matter how he states it, it still feels glaring.

24 grueling hours of torture, not knowing where his sons are or even if they’re still alive. It’s eating at him. The circumstances of this case are unusual. He’s never encountered anything like it before. And he can’t separate himself from this case like he does with most other cases. He isn’t looking at this as Batman, the detective. He’s looking at this as Bruce Wayne, the father who desperately wants his sons back.

He remembers once hearing someone describe that feeling a parent gets when their child suddenly disappears from their sight; a tightening feeling in the chest, constricting the lungs and making it difficult to breathe. It’s a feeling that doesn’t dissipate until your child is safely back in your sight.

Maybe that’s why Bruce has caught himself holding his breath several times today.

And to think, he originally thought Damian was the only one he had to worry about…

_The two had been on patrol together, observing a hostage situation, when Bruce turned to his right only to find the spot his son once stood in empty. Looking around, he saw nothing but the night sky and the empty streets behind him. No sign of the 10 year old. After the initial flash of panic, Bruce was filled with annoyance at his stubborn child. It happened often; Damian going out on his own at some point during patrol, insisting that he didn’t need his father’s help, even though he almost always did._

_Bruce cursed under his breath and tried to contact him on the comm, planning out Damian’s future punishment for being such a hindrance and taking up his time that should be spent focusing on the hostages. To make matters worse, the comm gave him nothing but static in response._

_Damian had turned off his comm._

_They were going to have a nice,_ long _talk when they got home._

_Grunting in frustration, Bruce stalked to the back of the building. He heard the blare of the sirens, a tell-tale sign that the GCPD were coming to negotiate with the criminals inside the building to let the hostages out. He knew that he could expedite the process by sneaking in through the roof – if only he could find his Robin first._

_He swore, if that boy had already dropped in on the hostage situation by himself with no cover, he’d be grounded for a month and kept off patrol for –_

_His thoughts were cut short when he stepped on something that produced an odd crunching sound, almost like a leaf._

_A dried-up leaf in the middle of July?_

_Not likely._

_Removing his foot from whatever it was he stepped on, Bruce kneeled down to take a closer look._

_A rose._

_A dead rose, more accurately._

_It was so long dead that it was black, crunchy and delicate to the touch. His boot had basically obliterated it in its fragile state. Underneath it, something gleamed gold in the moonlight, catching Bruce’s eye. He brushed the broken petals out of the way and picked up the object in question._

_Damian’s Robin pin._

_Time seemed to slow down for a moment. Bruce could feel every heartbeat that echoed off his chest, could hear the sharp intake of breath he took involuntarily. His mind raced with possibilities and statistics, trying to calm himself down._

_The Robin logo was securely pinned on Damian’s chest. The only way it would come off was if someone was able to get a good grip on him and rip it off his chest. And if someone was actually able to get a secure grip on the usually untouchable boy…_

_It wouldn’t be much of a stretch that they were able to kidnap him as well._

Bruce runs a shaky hand through his dark hair, trying to ward off fatigue from over 24 hours without sleep. The coffee can only do so much to keep him awake and functioning. His body is demanding rest, but any minute, any _second_ wasted on rest is just another second his children could be suffering. There’s no guarantee that they’re even alive right now. They could have been killed the second they were all taken, their bodies discarded somewhere in Gotham for Bruce to find, like a twisted scavenger hunt…

_No._

He refuses to consider that option. He’s going to operate under the assumption that they’re all alive until he’s proven otherwise.

After Damian’s kidnapping, he tried getting in touch with Dick to ask him if he was available to come to Gotham and aid in the search. When Dick didn’t respond, he knew something was wrong. They were in a good spot in their relationship at the moment, no grudges to be held. Dick only avoided his calls when they were fighting. Otherwise, he picked up his phone right away. He knew that a call from Bruce usually meant an emergency.

It didn’t take long until Bruce stormed over to his apartment in Blüdhaven with a sinking feeling in his stomach. No one answered the door, so he had to force his way in. A few steps into the apartment and he heard a familiar crunching sound. Underneath his shoe was a single, blackened rose. When he checked Tim’s apartment, it was a similar scene. Even Jason’s safehouse had the same black rose waiting for Bruce to step on.

For each, the personal item left behind was different – Dick’s was an escrima stick. Jason’s was one of his guns. Tim’s was his bo staff. But with each of them, one thing remained the same.

The rose.

That damn rose.

“Sir,” Alfred calls from the stairs leading down to the cave.

Bruce doesn’t turn or give the older man any sign that he’s been heard. He’s too busy typing away, thoroughly checking in on the whereabouts of all his known enemies. No solid lead has popped up. It’s far from complete, but most of their alibies seem to check out.

They better check out after all the time it took to beat it out of them.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred repeats, sounding as tired as Bruce feels. “I insist you eat something. You’ve already skipped both breakfast and lunch, and you know as well as I that you cannot find the young masters if you drop dead from hunger.”

Bruce clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white at the reminder of his missing children. He knows logically that he should eat. It would give him the energy boost he’s looking for and serve to wake him up more. But his stomach turns over at the thought of food. He can’t handle it right now. He’s too on edge to eat.

“Later, Alfred,” Bruce mumbles. “I’m busy.”

Despite not being able to see Alfred’s face, Bruce knows that a disapproving frown is being sent his way. He’s been on the receiving end of that frown for _years_. Alfred gets on his back about not taking care of himself all the time. In the past day alone, Alfred has reminded him no less than 20 times that he needs to get his act together and take a shower or at least get a small snack. He’s been brushed off each time. Bruce has been too busy digging into the case.

Considering most kidnapping victims are killed within the first 24 hours, he has no time to lose. Even if the circumstances are radically different from most kidnapping cases, he’s going to treat it the same as he would in any other situation.

“Tell me, sir, are you _really_ any closer to finding them?” Alfred asks in frustration.

Bruce glares at his computer screen. He wishes more than anything that he could tell Alfred that they’re one step closer to getting the boys back, but he would be lying.

“Not exactly,” he admits. “I haven’t found a solid suspect, but I’ve been able to eliminate quite a few people from suspicion based on competency alone.”

“And how is that?” Alfred asks, his curiosity peaked.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and turns his chair around, finally facing Alfred.

“The skill it would take to pull off a crime like this…” Bruce trails off, shaking his head. “They were stolen so easily. There were no signs of a struggle, no shouts or noises heard by any passersby, and the setup they left for me was precise and seemed to be laid out without haste. Damian was out of my sight for less than 5 minutes and I never saw a thing. He was taken right out from under my nose. Whoever took them obviously knows what they’re doing. This is someone neat, precise, and highly dangerous. And they were most likely not working alone.”

He can already cross some of his enemies off the list based on intelligence and pattern. Killer Croc was out in a second. Riddler is smart enough, but this isn’t his usual M.O. Poison Ivy would only kidnap someone to further her cause, not to torment him. The Joker would make it messier – more chaotic. He would want Bruce to _know_ it was him.

He could be facing the possibility that this was done by someone he doesn’t know. A hidden enemy rising from the shadows, finally ready to strike him where it hurts.

A beeping noise emanating from the monitor behind him catches Bruce’s attention. He swivels in his chair, turning to face his elaborate computer system set-up. On the main screen, he sees a pop-up flashing bright red in the corner.

That’s… strange, to say the least. He doesn’t get unwanted pop-ups on his main system. And any form of email is disabled. That’s nearly impossible…

He hears Alfred stepping closer to him, probably as confused as he is. Like him, Alfred knows this system inside and out. He knows that this is unusual as well. Something doesn’t feel right.

Panic settles in Bruce’s chest as he drags the mouse over to click on the pop-up. He has a bad feeling about this. He _knows_ that this has something to do with the kidnapping. It’s too conveniently timed for it _not_ to be.

The pop-up opens to an audio file. Ignoring the feeling of dread swelling up inside him, Bruce clicks on the play button, anxiously awaiting what he thinks to be an explanation some instruction from the kidnapper.

But it’s not the kidnapper’s voice that greets him.

It’s Damian’s.

_“N-No…,”_ his son gurgles, his voice laced with pain.

Bruce freezes up, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turn a ghostly white. He hears Alfred’s soft, surprised gasp behind him.

It’s a tone twisted in agony, but he knows his own son’s voice when he hears it. He can hear the urgency in Damian’s plea, with an undertone of a sob clinging to it. He sounds like the scared child he is. The sound shakes Bruce to his very core, causing his chest to constrict painfully.

They’re torturing his son.

They’re _torturing_ his _son._ His tiny, 10 year old son who he’s already lost once before.

He wants more than anything to shut the audio clip off. As it is, the sounds of Damian’s agony will be seared into his brain forever. It hurts. He can’t bear to listen to his son in so much pain. He can’t _stand_ it.

But he has to.

It’s the only lead he’s gotten so far. He has to keep listening, no matter how painful it is.

_“P-Please…”_ Damian continues, displaying a weakness Bruce has never seen him show before. _“St-stop. Please, I-I’m begging you… Please stop…”_

Bruce clenches his jaw, thinking about what those bastards must be doing to his boy to get him to beg like this. He knows Damian; he’s stubborn and proud. He wouldn’t beg even if he had a gun pointed to his head. So whatever it is they’re doing to him now…

Bruce narrows his eyes. Rage builds in him at the thought of them putting their hands on his boy – _his_ boy. Whatever they’re subjecting him to, Bruce will give it back to them tenfold. He’ll show them the same amount of mercy they’re extending to Damian; none.

_“No! No, p-please d-don’t! NO!”_

The audio cuts away just as Damian’s loud and agonized scream rings out, and another audio clip is inserted.

_“Recognize the baby bat’s voice?”_ someone asks.

Bruce’s hands start shaking, aching to strangle the life out of the man on the audio clip.

_“I’m sure you do,”_ he continues in a mocking tone. _“And I’m also sure that you’re expecting a ransom demand right about now, or some long monologue about how you’ve done me wrong to explain why I’m exacting my revenge on you. Well, you’ll be disappointed to hear that’s not the case. I also don’t have any clues to leave you. I’m no Riddler, Batsy. I don’t_ intend _for_ _you to find them. You see, I wanna play a little_ game _. If you can manage to find your birdies in a week’s time, you get them back. No resistance and no future kidnappings. We’ll call it all a big misunderstanding. Scout’s honor. But if you fail to find them within a week of their abduction, I can promise you that you’ll never see them again.”_

Bruce’s clenched fists begin to shake. He’s dealing with a truly sick, twisted individual; one who’s doing this purely for enjoyment.

_“You already lost 24 hours, old man. 24 hours your little birds no longer have. You better get working, detective. Their lives depend on it.”_

With that, the audio clip ends as abruptly as it began and the screen goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some questions about this when I posted this on FFN back in the day, I guess because some language I use might have accidentally implied this, but there's ABSOLUTELY NO SEXUAL ASSAULT IN THIS STORY. People made the assumption from the last chapter and from this one that that's what was done to Damian but it's not, trust me. I don't write about that.


	4. Tim

_**140** _

Tim leans his head back against the thick drywall, his heavy eyelids drooping fast as he tries to fight off the annoying fatigue that plagues him. He doesn’t know how long it has been since he got some actual shut-eye and not a quick, 20 minute or so nap. A day? Two? Three? He wasn’t exactly resting _before_ he managed to get himself kidnapped. Too much work to be done. If Dick knew how erratic his sleep patterns have been these past few months, he’d no doubt get a firm scolding from his older brother.

But this is not a time to be thinking about sleep.

He has no idea how long ago they took Damian up in the dumbwaiter. The hours seem to have bled together and made time nearly impossible to decipher anymore. For all he knows, a day could have passed already. Maybe two. Time seems to move differently in this little room. It’s not as if he can just glance to a conveniently placed clock and find out. He’s been leaning against the wall for so long that his back muscles have gone way past the stage of tense and are now in a very unpleasant state of numbness.

The air in the bright, white room is permeated by a suffocating silence that Tim can only describe as deafening. No one has said anything since Damian left, besides the loud curse that was shouted by Jason the second the dumbwaiter disappeared from sight. As soon as their youngest brother was gone, Dick just slumped against the wall in defeat, his shoulders sagging and a pained moan escaping his lips. The expression on his face was anguished, like he had just made the worst possible mistake in the world. All Tim could do was sit by while his older brother wallowed in his self-perceived failure.

Jason, on the other hand, has completely shunned emotion. After his initial angry outburst, he sat down on the opposite side of the room, his face hard and emotionless like a stone statue, his posture rigid. He’s barely moved a muscle since then. It’s clear to Tim that both Dick and Jason dealing with this in their own way.

As for him?

He doesn’t know how he’s dealing with it.

He’s barely processing this. Kidnappings, he’s used to. He was kidnapped so much both as Robin _and_ as Tim Drake that Bruce once threatened to put a bell around his neck so he’d be easier to find. Those kidnapping never really got anywhere, as Bruce would swoop in and save him within less than a day or he’d manage to find a way out himself by taking advantage of the lesser intelligence of his captors. None of his kidnappings have ever been this serious.

None have ever been this… _terrifying_.

Though his pride prevents him from admitting it, Tim is scared. Extrememly scared, actually. He’s more scared than he’s been in quite some time, and that’s saying something, considering how reckless he’s been on missions lately.

Another thing Dick will probably scold him about when he finds about it. It seems no one in his rag-tag family ever approves of his actions.

To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s been _too_ reckless on missions. After all, he’s still alive and has yet to suffer any major injuries. He’s had a few close calls recently, but he’s managed to slip his way out of them all.

Well, all except this one, that is.

He leans his head back further against the wall, shutting his eyes tightly. Maybe he was too reckless. Maybe it was his own incompetence that got him stuck here. Maybe this will finally be the end of him. But if this is the end of him, it’ll be the end of the rest of them as well. They’re not dealing with the kind of person who would leave any loose ends.

He fiddles with his thumbs, breathing in and out deeply as he tries to calm himself. He’s been prone to panic attacks since his early teens, starting around the time his father died, and has become better at preventing them since then. Breathing exercises in particular calm his nerves and keep him from becoming a hyperventilating mess.

He’d never let his brothers see him like that. Not even Bruce has been witness to one of his breakdowns. He dreads the thought of _anyone_ seeing him in such a weak state.

So, Tim shuts the world out for just a few moments and focuses on his breathing.

_In for 4 seconds…_

_Hold for 7 seconds…_

_Out for 8 seconds…_

_Repeat…_

The loud clanking of the metal dumbwaiter plummeting down to earth startles Tim into snapping his eyes open and letting out the breath he was holding, a panic attack successfully held at bay. His eyes flitter over to Dick and Jason, who are both sitting up straight and gazing intently at the dumbwaiter. They both look like they’re waiting for some sort of trap to spring out.

Tim readies himself. With the psycho they’re dealing with, there’s no way of telling what he’s sending their way.

But the only thing that stumbles out of the dumbwaiter is a bruised and bloodied Damian, tripping and falling to the tile ground with a groan of pain and slowly crawling along in his torn Robin suit. His hands are shaking so hard it’s a surprise he can get a grip on the floor at all.

Tim’s eyes widen, his heart seeming to stop for a split second.

This is what their captors are capable of.

“Robin!” Dick shouts as loud as he dares, quickly dragging himself over to the injured boy.

His face is twisted in horror as he nears Damian, gently reaching out for him, like he’s scared of accidentally hurting him more than he’s already been hurt.

Jason stays back, but his eyes are hard – stone-like. Angry. Tim only ever sees that look on his face right before he pulls the trigger on a particularly heinous criminal. The sheer intensity of the look scares him. No one would ever want to see that look directed at them.

“What the fuck did they _do_ to you?” Jason growls, malice dripping from his words.

Damian raises his head, blearily looking at Dick by his side. His right eye is swollen nearly shut, a sickly shade of purple tinted red. The look on his face is far away, like he’s detached himself from reality. Dick gently pulls Damian onto his lap, settling his head against his chest and brushing the hair out of his face in a comforting, mother-like gesture.

Tim used to be jealous of that extra level of care Dick shows Damian. Now he feels like an ass for ever thinking that way.

He’s frozen in his place, unable to comfort Damian even if he wanted to. The two aren’t close. In fact, they’re about as distanced from each other as two people can be. But seeing Damian like this, beaten and bloodied and more rattled than he’s ever been…

It brings out a kind of anger he’s rarely ever felt. He wants to rip their kidnapper to pieces. Damian’s just a _child_.

“D-Don’ go up there…” Damian slurs, his head lolling to the side. “’S not worth it…”

Tim scoots forward, examining Damian’s injuries critically. Overall, he can’t deny that it definitely doesn’t look good. Damian’s little body is covered in cuts that look like they came from a knife, most of which seem to be fairly shallow. A fresh bruise blooms on the cheekbone below his black eye. His uniform is torn in several places, revealing scratches and some puncture wounds underneath. He’s banged up pretty badly, but it’s nothing life threatening.

Definitely not enough to cause such a reaction from a boy who once had a sword thrust through his chest.

Their captors must have done something else on top of just roughing him up a bit.

“What did they do to you?” Tim blurts out, echoing Jason’s earlier question.

Damian turns his head, seeming to look _through_ Tim rather than _at_ him. It’s unnerving enough to make Tim want to look away.

“Don’ wanna know,” he promises, his slurred voice barely above a mumble.

_“Listen to the Baby Bat, Little Bird.”_

Tim tightens his jaw, his fists clenching at his sides. That deep, condescending voice is the absolute last thing he wants to hear at this moment.

“What did you _do_ to him, you sick bastard?” Jason barks, looking up at the ceiling intercom angrily, like he’s staring straight into their captor’s eyes. The anger radiates off of him in waves.

And as Tim is beginning to learn, it’s contagious.

_“Shhhh,”_ the man whispers in a condescending tone. _“It’s a secret. Wouldn’t want me to spoil the surprise for the Little Bird, would you?”_

Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at Tim.

Tim’s eyes turn to stare up at the ceiling.

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded.

_“Step right up, Little Bird. You are the next contestant on ‘The Price is Right’,”_ the kidnapper announces, his voice heavy with enthusiasm. _“Be a good birdy like your brother and climb up into the dumbwaiter.”_

Tim can _feel_ Jason glaring at the back of his head, as if daring him to even _try_ getting in that dumbwaiter. Dick is staring at him, giving him that stern, disapproving look of his that makes Tim swear he’s looking at his father. But it’s Damian’s stare that gets him the most. His terrified bright green eyes are practically pleading with him not to get into that dumbwaiter.

Only Damian knows what will happen to Tim if he complies.

_“What are you waiting for?”_ their kidnapper asks, sounding slightly angrier at his command being ignored. _“Get in the dumbwaiter, boy.”_

Gone is the mockingly sweet tone calling him ‘Little Bird’. Their captor means business, and it’s obvious to Tim that he does _not_ like being ignored.

He knows that it would probably be easier to go quietly and not put up a fuss. There would be less of a chance of backlash aimed at his brothers, and his own punishment would probably be less severe.

But looking at how shaken Damian was when he came back, the terrified, almost feral look in his eyes…

Tim knows it isn’t worth it.

“No.”

Screw doing things the easy way.

_“Excuse me, but I don’t think I heard you correctly,”_ the kidnapper drawls in deathly calm voice. _“It almost sounded like you told me ‘no’. And I know I_ must _have heard you wrong because you would never put your brothers at risk by refusing to follow my instructions,_ right _?”_

Tim’s heart skips a beat, and he thinks his earlier panic attack might make a reappearance. He was a fool, a selfish _fool_ for even considering for a _second_ risking the lives of his brothers. Whatever their captor is dishing out, he can take it. He can take anything if it means keeping his brothers safe.

The opens his mouth to tell the man that he’s changed his mind, but Jason interjects for him.

“No fucking way is he letting you do _anything_ to him! If you want to torture someone, it’s gonna have to be _me_.”

Tim glares at him, mentally willing him to keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t get himself killed. He can’t save him if he’s going to continue to provoke their kidnapper.

The overhead voice just laughs that same demonic sounding chuckle, making Tim’s blood run cold. He makes the Joker’s laugh sound like a polite giggle.

_“Okay, Hood. You win. I won’t make the Little Bird come to me. I’ll bring the punishment to him.”_

Tim’s eyes automatically flick over to the hole in the wall across from him.

He can just barely see the barrel of a gun through the hole.

His survival instincts scream at him to move his body out of the way, but the rational part of his brain knows that this will be of no use. There’s a hole in each of the 4 walls surrounding them. No matter where he moves, one of them will have a clear shot of him. There’s no use in moving out of the way.

At least where he is now, there’s no chance one of his brothers will be hit.

_“And I thought you were the smart one, Little Bird. Such a disappointment.”_

Tim closes his eyes, preparing himself for the bullet to rip through his brain and kill him instantly. At least it will be quick. There will be no pain. He expects to feel more emotion, knowing he’s about to die. Anger, sadness, regret, grief, fear. But he doesn’t feel any of that. He feels… nothing.

No, not quite nothing. He feels content. A strange way to feel when he’s facing down death, but there’s no time to examine that now. He’ll just have to be grateful for it.

He hears the crack of the gun shooting off and jumps in his spot.

It takes Tim only a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t the one who took that shot.


	5. Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda a short chapter, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyways!

**_140_ **

_Way to go, Todd,_ Jason thinks to himself as Dick rushes over to him and tries to stem the blood flowing like a river from his right side. _You just had to be the hero. You couldn’t have left things alone for once in your life. Dumbass._

He isn’t sure exactly what he was thinking when he put himself in the way of that gun. It was an instinct, pure and simple. A stupid instinct. He just couldn’t stop himself from launching his body into the line of fire.

He is such a dumbass.

 _“Hm,”_ the voice Jason has come to despise muses. _“I thought it would be the Golden Boy that took a bullet for the little ones. I must have underestimated you, Hood. I guess you_ do _care about your ‘brothers’.”_

Jason wishes he could snap back with a snarky remark, but he can’t even manage to get a sound out. The pain chokes back his words, constricting his throat like a vice. When he attempts to say something scathing, the only thing that comes out is a pained squeaking noise that he’s embarrassed could ever emanate from his mouth.

“Don’t try to speak,” Dick commands, pressing down on his wound using both hands. “Conserve your energy.”

Jason wants to reassure Dick that he’s going to be okay. He wants to tell him that the bullet is in a good spot, on his side and away from any vital organs. But the combination of the gunshot wound, the lack of food and water, and the exhaustion makes his energy level too low for even such a simple task.

All he can do is lay back and let Dick try to stop the blood flow while the Replacement is still trying to gather his wits and the Demon is just staring at the entire scene unfolding with a blank expression on his face, completely divorced from reality.

The two youngest birds are completely useless at the moment.

So Jason just keeps his gaze locked on the Golden Boy, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. Each breath he takes in makes his abdomen area ache like it’s being licked by flames that are making a tortuously slow crawl towards his lungs. Right now it seems like the easiest thing to do would be to stop breathing completely and let nature take its course.

But Jason Todd has never been a quitter, and he’s not about to start now. He’ll live to tell this story.

And he’ll live to kill the bastard who dared to try to kill him. _Again_.

“Oh my god,” Tim finally chokes out, seemingly recovered from his temporary state of shock. “Jason, I’m so sorry, I should have taken that shot instead. It was meant for me. I’m so –,”

“Shut up,” Jason croaks.

Tim stops babbling like an idiot and nods vigorously, scooting closer to help Dick stem the bleeding. Jason groans at the stinging sensation that comes from another hand being placed on his wound. The extra hand doesn’t do much good. None of the hands do much good. He’s still drenching the tile floor in his own blood.

“We have to remove the bullet and sterilize the wound,” Dick declares. “And we have to do it soon.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

 _Well no shit, Golden Boy,_ he thinks. _But there’s the little issue of having absolutely no supplies that would be needed to take the fucking bullet out of my body._

If only he could work up the energy to actually say that out loud.

“But how?” Tim asks, his voice choked with panic. “I mean, I could try to dig it out with my hands, but it would be messy and potentially even more dangerous than just leaving the bullet alone.”

Dick sighs, shutting his eyes tightly and huffing in frustration. He’s never looked older to Jason than he does in this moment, hunched over and with worry lines etched in his face. If he squints, he can swear he sees gray hairs sprouting at his temples.

Or maybe that’s just pain induced delusions talking. He can’t tell.

Jason’s eyes sluggishly flit over to Damian. The kid seems more alert now, more engaged in his surroundings. He’s looking at the entire scene with concern, his body leaning towards them as if he wants to help. Jason can only hope that when he’s fully lucid, he won’t immediately try to pretend like nothing ever happened; like Bruce would.

_“I can help you remove that bullet, you know.”_

Jason’s initial reaction is to bark back a refusal, but he knows it would come out as a pitiful squeaking. He doesn’t want to give that sick bastard the pleasure of hearing him reduced to such a vulnerable state.

“You’ve ‘helped’ enough,” Dick hisses for him.

For the first time in a long time, Jason is grateful for the presence of the Golden Boy. He can be annoying and sometimes Jason just wants to punch him square in the face, but there’s no questioning where his loyalty lies. He’s dedicated to his broken little family.

 _“Let me rephrase that,”_ the bastard drawls out. _“I can help Hood help himself.”_

The metal clanking of the improperly greased dumbwaiter slamming down to earth catches Jason’s attention. He lifts his head as much as he possibly can in his state, ignoring the aching pain in his side at the action, and looks up at the little gift that has been left for him.

In the dumbwaiter sits a small rectangular tray.

Attempts to lift his head anymore to see inside the tray results in his vision darkening at the edges. He decides to lay his head back down so he doesn’t black out.

Tim scoots over, grabbing the tray and setting it down on the ground to examine it. Jason can’t see into the tray, but he can see Tim’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he sees what’s inside.

“Supplies to take the bullet out,” Tim announces. “Tweezers, a scalpel, disinfectant, cotton balls, a needle and thread, gauze and bandages, even a small iron to cauterize the wound afterwards if need be. We have everything we need.”

Jason lets himself sigh in relief, though the action hurts him. He’s not entirely sure if a crude surgery will suffice for too long, but it’s a start. He’ll get medical attention after they get out of this hell hole. For now, he’s just going to have to let the Replacement cut him open and hope that he picked up _something_ from watching Alfred patch them up all these years.

As soon as Tim picks up the disinfectant, the click of a gun being cocked echoes throughout the room.

 _“Uh-uh-uh, Little Bird,”_ their kidnapper teases over the intercom. _“_ You _are not removing that bullet.”_

Dumbfounded, Tim slowly hands the disinfect over to Dick.

 _“Neither is the Golden Boy,”_ he corrects as soon as Dick gets ahold of the bottle.

Jason, Dick, and Tim all lock eyes, looking back and forth to each other for answers. So if it’s not Dick, and it’s not Tim…

Slowly, their collective gazes land on Damian, who sits in the corner seeming as confused and fearful as the rest of them. The kid looks at the disinfectant in Dick’s hands like it is going to jump out and eat him at any second.

Oh no, Jason is _not_ letting a traumatized, near-catatonic child near him with a sharp object. He wouldn’t trust him to perform surgery on a good day, much less in the zombie-like state he’s currently in.

Dick drags the tray over towards him, giving a glare directed towards the ceiling.

“We’re not letting Robin –,”

_“Who said anything about letting the Baby Bat do it?”_

In that moment, Jason finally knows where this is going. He wishes to every deity he can think of that he’s incorrect. Every single inch of his abdomen aches and he’s getting weaker by the second. His death certificate has already been signed.

_“I want the Hood to take the bullet out himself.”_

When he pictured the day he would die again for good, he didn’t imagine it would happen like _this_.


	6. Bruce II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like I take forever to update this story, but that's because I want to work on new chapters before I post the revised chapters I already have. I like being ahead of things! I promise this story won't fall to the wayside.

_**120** _

Dead end after dead end after dead end.

Bruce is getting really sick of all these leads ending in absolutely nothing.

His computer is his best friend, only leaving his side when he goes out to investigate a lead that always inevitably turns out to be a complete waste of his and his boys’ time. He’s been questioning every criminal on his radar, even ex-rouges who have turned over a new leaf. If they’ve done something mildly suspicious enough in the past few years to catch the attention of a single Justice League member, he’s either eliminated them based on circumstance or questioned them already.

No one knows anything. No one has seen anything. No one has heard anything. There aren’t even any whispers on the street about the missing heroes, except for confused citizens wondering where their protectors have gone.

And the clock is ticking.

Bruce holds his shaking hands out in front of him. He knows he had too many cups of coffee this morning. The jitters he’s getting as a side-effect are evidence of that. But how else is he supposed to stay alert while running on less than 1 hour of sleep per night?

He can’t very well sleep for long when all the night brings is a fresh batch of nightmares.

Just thinking of the things he sees when he closes his eyes causes Bruce to clench his fists until his knuckles crack. He’s no stranger to nightmares, of course. Since the murder of his parents, they’ve become his constant companion. They’re his old friends who visit him every time exhaustion beckons him to close his eyes. They only worsened when Jason died, and then Damian. He should be almost indifferent to them now. But reliving a dark memory is a very different thing from imagining dozens of horrific future outcomes for the fate of his sons.

He can’t even begin to imagine what they’re going through right now, and he doesn’t particularly _want_ to imagine it. The recording their kidnapper sent him of Damian’s tortured screams still rings in his ears. It plays on a loop in all of his nightmares. If he gets more messages, more recordings of the rest of his sons…

He can’t think that way. One of the most important lessons he learned early on as Batman was that emotions get in the way of a mission. While he can’t lock down all emotions completely when the case involves his children, letting them consume him will only cloud his mind. He owes it to his sons to keep his personal feelings in check.

Anything for the sake of the mission.

With a renewed determination, he inputs an address into the batmobile’s GPS system and stalks over to the lockers to grab his suit and cowl. He has one more lead to follow up on. One more place to go, one more person to question. It might turn out to be another dead end, but with all the failures he’s faced these past few days, he has nothing to lose but his hope.

And that’s not leaving him anytime soon. Not when it’s the driving force behind his search.

It’s the only thing he has left to hold onto these days. It’s what’s keeping his sons alive in his mind.

The minute his hope is gone, so are they.

He’s halfway to the batmobile, suited up, when he hears Alfred call out to him.

“Sir, Miss Gordon called earlier this afternoon.”

He stops in his tracks.

Dick and Barbara’s on-again-off-again relationship is currently ‘on’, and Bruce has little doubt that Barbara noticed his absence almost immediately. He’s not sure why she didn’t call him sooner. Maybe she tried finding Dick on her own first. Maybe she tried contacting others. Or maybe she’s exhausted every other option and finally has to turn to her last resort: Bruce.

He clenches his fists.

“I’ll call her back later.”

Barbara’s relationship with Dick would only be a hindrance to him. Bruce knows firsthand how being personally invested in a case can make someone rush into danger too quickly and overlook crucial evidence in their rush to solve it.

This is something he has to do alone, even if it means keeping everyone else in the dark.

“Master Bruce...,” Alfred sighs, sounding as exhausted as Bruce feels.

They both know Bruce won’t be answering that message.

He can sense the older man’s disapproval, but he refuses to turn around and face him. There’s nothing he can say that would change Bruce’s mind.

These are _his_ children. He’ll search for them in the way that _he_ thinks is the most efficient, and no one is going to stand in his way.

* * *

This florist is far more stubborn than Batman had anticipated. Or maybe he’s just too terrified to speak. It’s hard to tell when he’s too busy stuttering out panicked gibberish and hyperventilating.

“Oh, just calm down already and tell me what I need to know,” Batman growls as he tightens his grip on the rotund man’s cheap tweed jacket collar.

He can’t help but roll his eyes at the man’s dramatic gasping. The ledge he’s hanging off isn’t even all that high. At this height, he would just suffer the immense pain of snapping both his legs like twigs, but he’d still live.

The nervous man starts to go red in the face out of fear and a short supply of oxygen to his brain from his constant gasping breaths.

“I-I can’t t-tell y-you!” he chokes out, looking pained and close to tears. “H-He’ll come a-after m-m-me!”

Batman twists his fists in the collar of suit jacket, pulling the balding middle aged man closer to him until the pointed nose of his cowl is bumping into the man’s own thin, ghoulish one. He narrows his eyes threateningly behind the white lenses, staring at the florist hard enough to send chills down the spines of even Gotham’s most hardened criminals.

“Then I’m sure you’ll want two working legs in order to run away from him,” he hisses. “But if you continue to hold out on me, I can’t make any promises.”

He must admit, he doesn’t usually resort to this sort of interrogation as a first option unless he’s dealing with _actual_ criminals, not old, overweight florists. But he refused to tell him who ordered 4 roses together in the past 2 months, despite the look on his face revealing that he remembered _exactly_ who bought that arrangement. The fact that he was going on about a ‘confidentiality agreement’ coupled with the fact that this was the 5th florist Batman had question just today sent him over the edge. His frustration got the better of him, and here he is, hanging a debatably innocent man over the ledge of Gotham City Floral Arrangements.

At least he picked a relatively short building.

“I-I didn’t d-do any-thing!” the man pleads, squirming desperately in Batman’s strong grip. “P-Please, you _h-have ­to_ believe me!”

Batman remains stoic, unmoved by the man’s pleading. He’s heard all the same arguments before. One would be surprised at how quickly a man will reveal his cowardice when he’s held over the ledge of a building.

“Give me what I came here for and _then_ I’ll decide whether or not you’re guilty,” he growls, making it a point to loosen his hold on the jacket collar.

He knows his reflexes are far too fast to let the man drop, despite his rather large size. But just because that’s obvious to him doesn’t mean it’s obvious to the pathetic, spineless man having a panic attack in his grip.

“N-No!” he exclaims desperately. “P-Please, don’t! I-I’ll give you an address! I CAN GIVE YOU AN ADDRESS!”

Batman gives a rare smirk concealed by the shadows and pulls the man’s limp, shaking body forward onto the safe haven of the roof.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

* * *

The address written down in shaky, almost illegible handwriting by the sobbing florist leads Batman to a decrepit apartment complex in the crime-ridden East End of Gotham, smack-dab in the middle of drive-by street. Not exactly the ideal headquarters for a criminal mastermind holding 4 captives. He sincerely doubts this is where his sons are being held. Even so, it may hold an important clue as to where they really are. That is, if the captor hasn’t been thorough already and cleared the place out by now.

Batman marches up the narrow stairway, dodging the dirty toy trucks scattered around the steps by the kids living in the building. He can hear a man and a woman screaming at each other in the distance, as well as several wailing children throughout the building, ignored by their parents. It gives Batman a splitting headache. The more doors he passes by, the more grating noise he hears seeping out of the thin walls. A heavily populated apartment complex filled with families?

What kidnapper would operate here, even for a short period of time?

Batman looks back down at the crumpled up piece of paper in his gloved hand, looking at the smudged up address. 682… 682…

He passes 675… 678… 681…

 _Ah, there it is, 682_.

Instead of breaking down the door and attracting the attention of the abundance of families in the building, he decides to jiggle the door handle around just to check.

It slowly creaks open without any protest, much to Batman’s surprise.

That was… much too easy.

Batman creeps in through the doorway cautiously, his heavy, boot covered feet colliding with several pieces of wadded up paper that litter the entrance to the broken-down apartment. One look around the place makes it easy to tell that this rat’s nest that one would call a _home_ hasn’t been lived in for quite some time.

Broken glass bottles – root beer bottles, surprisingly – litter the floor in millions of little scattered pieces. Crunched up newspapers are strewn across the coffee table and the couch that has stuffing bursting out of the rips in its fabric. A 3-legged nightstand is tipped over and laying vertically on the floor. The curtains are ripped off the hinges and hanging on the floor. A thick lair of dust coats every piece of furniture in the room.

And there’s a dead man in the center of it all.

The florist, to be exact.

Batman crouches down and automatically places his fingers up to the man’s neck in a frantic need to revive what he knows he can’t. No pulse, just as he expected. Still warm. A long, jagged knife protrudes from his chest. His once pristine white button-up shirt is soaked in blood that has seeped down onto the floor, making a small pool around his body. His pale face holds a terrified expression, even in death.

A shiver goes down Batman’s spine. He rushed here as soon as he was done squeezing information out of the man before him. It shouldn’t have left anybody enough time to kill him and stuff him in this apartment with seemingly flawless expertise.

_Unless someone has been watching him._

Batman retracts his hand from the body as if it had just been slapped away. He almost didn’t notice the photos next to the dead man’s body. With them half-buried underneath his head, Batman can’t see them clearly enough. Picking them up, he brings them closer to his face and squints.

They’re pictures of his sons. More accurately, Jason and Damian. They’re both grainy, obviously taken from CCTV cameras that have been zoomed in on them. But the low quality doesn’t take aware from the horror they portray.

Jason, the son he’s failed so many times before, lays limp on a white-tiled floor with blood gushing from his abdomen, caused by what Batman’s trained eye can tell is a bullet wound. The look on his face is pained, his eyelids half-closed.

If that wasn’t enough to make Batman want to vomit right then and there, then the next picture certainly does the trick.

It’s Damian. He lays on a very different looking floor, this one hardwood. His uniform is torn up, his body bruised and his eye blackened. He’s sprawled out with his arms stretched out in front of him, as if he’s trying to crawl away from an invisible attacker. His eyes are closed and his mouth is half-open in what Batman can only assume is the beginning of a scream.

Batman clenches the pictures in his shaking fist. The potent mixture of anger and pain rises up in his chest and fills his lungs, his heart, his stomach, every part of his being. He needs his sons back. He _needs_ to get them back. Now knowing the kind of hell they’re going through will make it almost impossible for him to retain his sanity while trying to track them down.

If his sons _don’t_ make it through this…

No.

He doesn’t want to think about that possibility. He will do everything in his power to prevent that from happening. There is _nothing_ he’s not willing to do if it has even the slightest chance of working.

Batman throws the bent pictures down on the floor and pulls out his comm.

“Penny-One? We’re out of leads. Contact the others.”

It’s time for him to swallow his pride.

He can’t do this alone.


	7. Dick II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally remembered my old ffn password and posted a little announcement on there saying I'd moved over here and I was so shocked to see how many of you read this all the way back in 2014 and are now reading it again! I can't believe people were waiting for me to update this for so long. It makes my little heart grow three sizes larger. <3

**_120_**

When the week began, the room that has become Dick Grayson’s own personal Hell was white. _Extremely_ white. White as far as the eye could see. It was blinding. It was sterile. The sight was drilled so far into his brain that he saw it behind his eyelids when he blinked. He thought that staring at the annoyingly clean white tile floor day in and day out for God knows how long would be what ultimately drove him to the brink of madness.

Right now, he would trade anything to be staring down at that clean white tile instead of the blood and vomit caked mess the floor tile has become. The mixture of the coppery blood and the bile sticks to the inside of his nose. He swears he can taste it in the back of his throat.

It took countless long, grueling hours for a weak and dizzy Jason to finally pluck the bullet out of his body and properly tend to the wound, and Dick could do nothing but sit back and watch as his younger brother writhed in pain, close to bleeding out. Tim leaned against the wall in defeat, while a near catatonic Damian rested his head on Dick’s lap. All of them were too afraid that approaching Jason would cause the sadistic freak controlling this death trap to end Jason’s suffering with a bullet to the head.

He had been very clear about his zero tolerance policy for interferences.

Even now, as Jason lays sprawled out across the floor with his eyes half closed in exhaustion, Dick is still frozen in terror. Is he allowed to help him _now_? Is that still a punishable offence? Or has the ban on going near his brother been lifted? Does he have to ask permission to approach? He has no idea, and he’s too terrified to ask for clarification. With such a fickle man making the rules, Dick feels as though his very existence is enough to earn himself and his brothers a punishment.

As if reading Dick’s thoughts, Tim looks up at the ceiling and begs,

“He took the bullet out himself just like you asked him to. We didn’t interfere. Can we _please_ go to him now?”

Tim’s impassioned plea earns a cruel chuckle from their captor.

 _“Weeelllll…”_ he drawls out, sadistic pleasure obvious in his tone. _“I suppose, since you have followed all my directions, you may begin your candle-light vigil over Hood’s body.”_

That’s all it takes for Dick to slide over to Jason’s limp form, gliding through a thick pool of slightly congealed blood. He grimaces at the feeling of his hands sweeping across the tile, letting the blood seep into his gloves. He doesn’t know when his hands started shaking, but he’s barely able to keep them steady as he brushes Jason’s shirt up, viewing his wound. He lets out a shaky breath at the gruesome sight.

It doesn’t look so good.

The stich work is jagged and haphazard, too deep in some areas and too shallow in others. Dry blood cakes the area around the wound, spread around by Jason’s fumbling hands. If the puffy red skin around the stitches are any indication, the wound is irritated. Dick is no doctor, but he knows Jason needs one. Soon.

But with their captor’s sadistic streak, that doesn’t seem likely.

“Hold on, Little Wing,” Dick whispers to him, keeping his voice low in hopes their kidnapper won’t hear him and mock his brotherly concern. “I’ll get you out of here somehow. I promise. And you know I never break my promises.”

He desperately wants to believe this to be true, but he feels like he’s disappointing his brothers more and more these days.

Jason’s eyes dart around weakly, as if he’s trying to find the source of those words. Finally, his eyes land on Dick, who squeezes his hand tightly in response.

“I-I know…” Jason chokes out.

Dick doesn’t think he’s ever done anything good enough in his life to deserve the absolute trust his siblings have in him.

He tries to give Jason a small smile for comforts sake, but that’s a tall order these days. He thinks if he tried to smile, he may just burst into tears. Not many things can shatter Dick Grayson’s indomitable spirit, but the threat of losing the only family he has left is one of the few things that can wipe that ever present smile right off his face.

How does Jason have so much faith in him, when he’s already proven he can’t protect any of them?

Tim scoots up next to him, his hand hovering over Jason’s wound. Dick can see the guilt written all over Tim’s face. He saw it coming from a mile away. After all, that bullet was meant for him. But Tim’s internal crisis can wait.

Dick can only deal with one crisis at a time right now.

Letting out a shaky sigh, Tim pokes the skin around Jason’s messy stitch work. This earns a weak groan from a barely conscious Jason and a concerned glance from Dick. The exchange causes a ball of anxiety to form in his throat, restricting his breath. He knows Tim is far more intelligent than him, and probably paid closer attention to Alfred’s first aid lectures than he did.

If Tim looks concerned, something definitely isn’t right.

“He’s lost a lot of blood …” Tim whispers, as if Dick wasn’t already aware of that. “I… I’m not sure how long he’s going to last without some proper help…”

“Don’t say that,” Dick snaps.

He regrets it the minute he sees Tim flinch as if he’s just been slapped across the face. Dick can’t remember the last time he took that tone with Tim. Jason, sure. Even Damian a few times when he was his Robin. But not Tim.

The stress is starting to get to him.

“I’m _trying_ to be realistic!” Tim insists. “We have no idea how long we’re going to be here, but I do know that Jason has little chance of surviving through the next few hours unless he receives a blood transfusion.”

Dick feels like laughing at the insanity of it all. Here they are, stuck in the middle of what he can only perceive as Hell on earth, and Tim is demanding they find some way to get Jason a _blood transfusion_. What, are more supplies going to drop down to them out of seemingly nowhere? Is Jason going to have to administer it to himself again while the rest of them just watch from the sidelines in horror?

He’s not sure if he can stand witness to that. Not again.

“Even if, say, we _did_ have the proper supplies to administer a blood transfusion, we don’t know his blood type or if any of us are matches for that blood –,”

“A positive,” Tim blurts out, interrupting Dick. “His blood type is A positive.”

Dick gives him a curious look, causing Tim to blush slightly under the scrutiny and take a sudden interest in the grimy floor.

“I looked at the medical records that Al- that Agent A keeps, just in case of emergencies…” he explains. “I just wanted to be prepared. He’s so stubborn, you know? But nowhere in my contingency plans did I take into consideration…”

Tim stops abruptly, letting his unspoken words hang in the air. Dick knows exactly what he means. Never have they all been so helpless, especially while all of them are together. There’s always a plan, always a way out; just like Bruce taught them. Except for this time.

Dick wonders how disappointed Bruce would be in him right now. All these years of training gone to waste.

“What’s your blood type?” Dick asks Tim in a hushed voice.

For a split second, a flicker of hope goes through Dick’s heart when Tim opens his mouth to respond. Hope is not totally lost. Not yet. They can manage some sort of impromptu device with the few supplies they’ve been given. With Tim’s imaginative mind on their side, Dick is sure they can find a way to save Jason.

“I’m B positive. I’m not a match.”

Dick’s heart sinks.

He didn’t dare to consider the fact that none of them might be able to give Jason blood. Hope is the only thing he has to hold onto in here.

A soft, pained groan from the injured man in question only heightens the urgency and anxiety bubbling up in the pit of Dick’s stomach. On pure instinct, Dick leans forward and brushes Jason’s hair out of his face, whispering softly for him to hang on.

“What about Robin…?” Tim asks hesitantly.

He glances up from Jason and over at his youngest brother, who has made his way the other side of the room. Though he is no longer completely catatonic, his eyes are still glassy and clouded in a way that is unsettling to Dick. He merely watches from afar, both physically and emotionally distant. Beneath his concern for his brothers, a question nags at him.

_What did they do to Damian?_

Both Dick and Tim tear their gazes away from Damian and they lock eyes, a silent agreement passing between them that Damian will only be used as a last resort. Neither wants to risk hurting him more than their captors have already.

Tim looks over at Jason’s prone body, the corners of his mask crinkling as he narrows his eyes in deep thought.

“What’s your blood type?” he asks Dick.

Dick can vaguely remember, back when he was still running around in green shorts and a yellow cape, Alfred telling him his blood type. The old man gave him a stern reminder to remember it just in case of an emergency.

“AB positive, I think…” he responds with a furrow in his brow.

Yes, that sounds about right. He can practically imagine Alfred giving him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder for managing to remember. It only proves to make him ache for home even more. He never thought he could long for such a simple gesture so much in his life.

He didn’t think it possible, but Tim just deflates even more. Dick realizes, a few seconds too late, that this means neither can give to Jason. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to punch the drywall until his knuckles bleed enough to trickle onto the floor and into the puddle of Jason’s blood beside him. Their options are running thin.

It’s time for the last resort.

With a heavy heart, he turns to Damian. The last thing he wants to do is demand _anything_ of the boy when he’s in this state. He’s so… fragile. He looks every inch the 10 year old boy he really is; scared, confused, and in need of comfort that Dick cannot provide him. And god, does he wish he could.

“Robin…,” he breathes. “What’s your blood type?”

For a few moments, he’s met with nothing but silence. Damian isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring right at Jason, as if expecting him to wake up at any second. It makes Dick’s heart clench painfully.

“O negative,” he finally whispers.

Dick turns to Tim and watches as his face lights up. It feels like so long since he’s seen Tim show any genuine happiness, it takes him aback.

“He’s a universal donor,” Tim says, sounding like he may cry. “He can give blood to any blood type.”

For the first time in a long time, Dick feels a small shred of optimism and thinks that maybe, just maybe, things will work out for the best. But that hope quickly sours when he reminds himself they don’t have the necessary tools for it.

 _It’s possible_ , Dick tells himself stubbornly. _Anything is possible_.

 _“Oh boys,”_ the voice from above calls in a sing-song tone. _“If you wanted the proper supplies to pump life back into Hood, you could just ask.”_

Dick growls quietly, inching closer to Jason’s body, ready to be his shield.

This man is their executioner. Dick refuses to let him become their savior as well.

“We don’t need any help from _you_ ,” he hisses.

His body is tense, as if ready for a fight that he knows isn’t coming. He vaguely feels Tim’s hand fall on his stiff shoulder, squeezing it to bring him back to reality.

“ _Nightwing_ ,” Tim admonishes. “Think about it. We have no needles, no tubes, no bags, _nothing_. I want to accept a psychopath’s help about as much as you do, but it’s a necessary evil right now. _Please_.”

Dick hates it when Tim is right.

Which is most of the time, come to think of it.

“Fine,” he relents, letting his shoulders slouch in defeat.

 _“I wouldn’t get on the soapbox quite yet if I were you, Little Bird,”_ their captor teases. _“You should know by now that my generosity comes at a price.”_

Dick and Tim look at each other, the question of what they will be forced to do to save their brother hanging in the air. Dick just prays that his other two brothers have nothing to do with whatever this request might be. He knows he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to spare them from this maniac’s wrath, even at the cost of his own life.

Or his dignity. Whichever comes first.

 _“My request is simple,”_ the psycho in question drawls out.

Something about that voice makes Dick’s stomach turns over. He sounds so… pleased. He’s not doing this out of hatred or greed or money lust. He’s doing this for the sheer enjoyment.

 _“I want you to punch the Little Bird. In the face._ Hard _.”_


	8. Tim II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, because I won't be able to post another one for at least a few weeks. It's finals season for me, and ya girl is trying to graduate. The next chapter is basically finished, but I don't have time yet to do the minor tweaking I do to each chapter before posting. I'll see you guys again after I get through this hellish semester.  
> Also, this is the last chapter I posted when I was on ffn! But this time, I swear we are FINISHING this story!

_**119** _

_“I want you to punch the Little Bird. In the face._ Hard. _”_

Tim squints up at the speakers in the ceiling, as if that would make their captor take those words back. His normally sharp mind is running on fumes, unable to process information at half the speed it usually could. Their captor’s words are just words to him. They hold no semantic value. He can almost forget that ‘Little Bird’ is him. After all, the only one who uses that nickname is Dick.

But when he does remember, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Damian is lying in the farthest corner of the room, practically comatose after lord knows what was done to him by those bastards, Jason lay dying on the hard tile floor just a few feet away from him, and Dick is staring at him as if he has grown three heads.

A punch to the face is nothing compared to what will happen to Jason if he doesn’t go through with this.

How many times had Bruce or Dick knocked him down during training sessions? How many times had Damian or Jason punched him in the face during one of their fights? How many times had he been captured by the enemy and kicked while he was already on the floor? How many times had someone landed a lucky hit on him during patrol?

How many times had he _let_ someone land that lucky hit during patrol?

Endless weeks of patrols, Wayne Enterprises budget meetings, reading up on casefiles and digging up dirt on suspects, coming home to his empty apartment, and foregoing sleep to work on cases left Tim numb to all feeling. So what if he got knocked around once in a while? At least he was finally feeling _something_.

At least then, he could remember that he was alive.

He knows that a punch from Dick should feel like a betrayal. After all, that’s what is probably running through Dick’s head right now. They’re brothers in everything but blood. This would be turning on each other. Giving in to their captor’s sick, twisted desires. But Tim can’t bring himself to see it that way.

How long has it been since he’s seen Dick?

Before this whole fiasco, of course.

A week? A month? More?

It’s been even longer since he’s seen Damian.

Or Jason.

Or Bruce – oh god, Bruce…

He had abandoned them all. He buried himself in misery and didn’t look back. The least he can do is take a punch to save his dying brother.

He deserves this.

He’s not a religious person in the least, but he assumes this is the closest he’ll get to penance.

“Do it,” Tim demands.

Dick gives him a look like he’s insane. And maybe he is. Days locked in a little room with no food or water or sense of time will do that to a person. But Tim feels like for the first time in a long time, he’s thinking clearly. He’s the only one who’s willing to do what has to be done.

“Ti- _Red Robin_ , I can’t,” Dick croaks out.

His voice comes out like two pieces of sandpaper scraping against each other. Whether that’s because of the lack of water in this hellhole or his despair at having to punch his younger brother, Tim doesn’t know. Maybe it’s a combination of both.

“You have to,” he argues. “If you don’t, Ja- _Red Hood_ is going to die for sure.”

For a brief moment, Tim wonders why he and Dick are bothering to correct themselves. Their captor has made it clear that he knows their identities already. They’ve probably made a slip up already without realizing it. At this point, covering up is more so done out of habit than necessity.

They do it because it’s what Bruce would do.

“But giving in to _his_ demands?” Dick whispers in a hiss. “We’re becoming his puppets, Red Robin. He wants to turn us against each other. Don’t you see? He doesn’t want to do all the dirty work. He’s letting us do it for him.”

He lowers his voice even further when he says,

“If there’s one thing B taught us, it’s that there’s always another way. There _has_ to be another way.”

Tim clenches his jaw and looks down to the floor, ashamed of himself. Though he hates to admit it, Dick has a point. If that bastard destroys their trust in each other, it will just make it that much easier for him to destroy them completely. They need each other in order to stay alive in this nightmare. They’re brothers, and they have each other’s backs.

And that includes saving one of their own from dying of blood loss.

“We’re not in the position to be refusing _any_ help,” he insists, his voice flat. “Even his.”

He braced his shoulders back and takes a deep breath.

“ _Punch me,_ ” Tim demands, surprised by the ferocity in his own voice. “Punch. Me.”

Dick frowns deeply, clenching his fists. Unsure. Scared.

 _“There_ is _another option, boys.”_

That voice. God, does he _hate_ that voice.

Whatever the second option is, Tim’s sure it’s just as bad as the first one, if not worse. But he can see from the look on Dick’s face that its sparked his interest. Tim knows that his brother would only agree to this second option if it meant _him_ getting hurt instead of Tim.

 _The self-sacrificing bastard,_ he thinks.

He wants to scream at him, curse and kick until he understands that Tim would never, ever, _ever_ offer him up as a sacrificial lamb to save himself. Dick is the glue that holds this patchwork family together. If something happens to him, it will devastate them all. But if something happens to _Tim_...

They can survive that.

“What is the second option?” Dick asks hesitantly.

 _“You send the Little Bird up to me,”_ the voice taunts. _“Save yourself the guilt of doing it yourself.”_

The two of them simultaneously whip their heads around to look at Damian, who’s still curled up in the corner. He seems to be coming back to reality, but the fear in his eyes is back. He shakes his head rapidly.

“No,” he begs. “No, don’t do it. Nightwing, don’t let him do it!”

Whatever happened to Damian, it must have been horrific. Beyond anything that Tim can imagine. But he’ll admit, he’s tempted to take their captor up on his offer as long as it spares Dick the guilt that he’s sure will plague him for weeks, maybe months to come.

 _Well, if we get out of here alive,_ he thinks.

He banishes that thought as quickly as it came.

“I won’t let him do it,” Dick assures Damian

Slowly, he turns to meet Tim’s eyes. Even though Tim can’t see his eyes under the white of his lenses, he knows that if he could, he would see so much anguish it would force him to look away. Dick must know he has no other choice. A few punches are preferable to their captor rendering him catatonic. But Dick is still hesitating.

Without thinking, Tim grabs Dick’s face in his hands and leans in close. Their noses are centimeters apart and Tim can hear Dick’s quick, nervous breaths. Tim lowers his voice to a whisper, hoping their kidnapper can’t hear his words.

“Do it. Do it for Jason.”

With that, Tim lets go of Dick’s cheeks and leans back, ready to receive a punch. He’s already made peace with it. It’s just another sacrifice he must make. His whole life has been sacrifice after sacrifice.

Sacrificing a normal life to be Robin.

Sacrificing his relationship with his father to be Robin.

Sacrificing his own safety and the safety of his family to be Robin.

Sacrificing Stephanie’s life to let _her_ be Robin.

Why does it all circle back to Robin?

Before Tim has time to contemplate this further, the first punch is delivered. Dick’s clenched fist connects with his cheek. What would have normally been manageable pain is only made worse by his dehydration and hunger. It’s enough to knock the wind out of him. It catapults him back from a kneeling position to laying on his back against the hard tile floor. He coughs, trying desperately to regain his breath.

It hurts like hell.

“T-Tim…” Dick whispers.

Before Tim can open his sore mouth to remind him about using codenames, a cackling resonates throughout the room.

 _“You call that ‘hard’?”_ the mocking voice of the kidnapper asks. _“I’ve seen you knock out ‘roid-raging muggers with a single punch. And you can’t even hurt a kid who’s about as big as a high school freshman? Go on, Nightwing. I won’t accept anything less than your very best. C’mon, son. Make Daddy Bats proud.”_

Tim stiffens at the mention of Bruce. He can’t help but think how ashamed his adopted father would be at how weak he is in this moment.

How unbelievably, incredibly weak he is.

But no matter how weak and tired and beaten down he is, he refuses to take a hit laying down. Bruce taught him better. He gets back up on his knees, ignoring the way they dig into the cracks of the tile floor, and prays that Bruce would approve of his decision.

“Do it,” he croaks.

He turns his head to the side after his demand, in part to prepare for the punch and in part because he can’t stand to see the look of utter despair on Dick’s face.

Another punch. Harder this time. Tim falls to the floor again, hitting his head on the cold, hard tile as he does so.

For a split second, there is no pain at all. He’s too busy trying to get his world back into focus as it ripples in front of his eyes. A few rapid blinks and it all comes back. All of it. Including the pain.

Awful, searing pain in his head, like cats are fighting inside his brain. For a few horrible moments, Tim thinks this might be what kills him. Then all this fighting would be for nothing. Of all the things, it would be head trauma to do him in. He doesn’t want to give his kidnapper the joy of seeing him dead. The pain in his head is so intense that it’s enough to distract from the pain in his cheek.

_“Again.”_

The voice rings around in Tim’s head like a thousand wind chimes, causing his headache’s intensity to increase tenfold. He’s too hungry, too thirsty, too tired to absorb punches the way he normally could. All he wants to do is lie on the cool tile ground and let himself slowly drift out of consciousness. Maybe out of this life.

But if he does so, Jason suffers the same fate. And one heavy-lidded glance at him confirms the fact that he’s already fading fast.

With a groan, Tim braces his hands against the floor and pulls himself back onto his knees. He wobbles from side to side, cursing under his breath. Just staying upright is a chore for the boy who used to be able to take on the likes of Ra’s al Ghul and still end up victorious.

“D-Do it…” he mumbles.

Through eyes as heavy as lead, he can see Dick bite down on his bottom lip hard.

“Goddamit, Nightwing, _do it_!”

Another punch sends him straight down to the floor. _Hard_.

_“Again!”_

Another punch and he can hear the bone in his nose give a sickening crack. Warm, sticky blood flows down his face in a small river. He licks his chapped lips. He can taste the iron.

_“AGAIN!”_

Another punch has his vision swimming again. No amount of blinks can make his world realign. The edges of his vision begin to turn black.

_“ **AGAIN!** ”_

One last hesitant punch across his cheek and he doesn’t feel it at all. Not really. He feels… warm. All over his body. But at the same time, he’s chilled to the bone. Numb.

Weeks of occasional punches and kicks while on patrol made him feel alive at the time. They reminded him he could still feel _something_. He was a human just like any other, and he could be hurt just like any other.

As he fades out of consciousness, he can’t help but register the irony in his addled brain.

He’s right back to where he started.

_Numb._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I just wanna say I am not one of those Batfam fans who thinks everyone is ~too mean~ to Tim. We are anti the infantilization and woobifying of Tim on this account! It’s a disservice to him! I’d also argue that Tim is just as much at fault for his bad relationship with Damian as Damian is but that’s another discussion for another time.


	9. Bruce III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finished with my finals! One step closer to graduating and getting my degree! WOOOOO!!! Here's a celebratory chapter.

**_110 hours_ **

Bruce likes to believe he’s above asking for help, whether it’s from the Justice League or the GCPD or even members of his own family. He’s single-minded and determined. When he does enlist the help of others, he’s the unequivocal leader of the operation. He has a plan and everyone he works with has to follow it to the letter.

The recent events have challenged that way of thinking for him. For once, he has about as many answers as everyone else does.

Barbara was the first to show up. She’d known about the disappearances from the beginning, just like Bruce. It would have been impossible to keep her in the dark. The second she realized she couldn’t get ahold of Dick, she called Bruce. He had refused her help then. He was a fool, thinking he could do it all by himself. And she told him that much when she wheeled herself into the cave, a cold glare on her face.

“You’re an idiot,” she had said to him. He had no argument for that.

Stephanie was the next to show up. She stormed into the cave, her anger blazing behind her eyes. From some of the more colorful things she promised to do to “the bastard who did this”, he could assume most of her anger was directed at the kidnapper. But he also had a feeling that he was a source for at least a small portion of that anger. How could he not be? He had kept this from her. He told himself that she was too emotionally involved, just like Barbara. It would have clouded her judgment, made her sloppy.

It was ironic when his own emotions towards the case were the reason why he had to enlist the help of others in the first place.

Cassandra was the last to show up. She’d flown in from Hong Kong as soon as Bruce called. Unlike Barbara and Stephanie, she wasn’t angry. At least, not visibly. As soon as Bruce ushered her into the cave, she flung herself into his arms in a warm hug. He hugged her back fiercely, grateful that his daughter was spared from the same fate as his sons. One of his children was safe.

When she pulled away from his embrace, she signed the words, _“We’ll find them”_. He signed back, _“I know”_.

Stephanie offered to come with him to search Dick’s apartment, while Cass searches through Tim’s and Barbara continues to dig through old casefiles in the cave. Just as he suspected, nothing in Dick’s apartment looks out of place – besides the remains of the dead rose that still lay near the door.

The apartment isn’t neat, but it isn’t messy. It just looks lived in, with jackets thrown over the couch and last week’s mail still laying on the coffee table. It’s... inconspicuous. But he didn’t expect there to be a neon sign leading him to a damning piece of evidence. Nothing about this case is that easy.

“I gotta admit, this is neater than Dick usually keeps it,” Stephanie says, breaking the silence. “He must have cleaned it recently.”

Bruce glances over at her while he sorts through Dick’s mail.

“You visited him recently?” he asks.

Stephanie gives him a strange look, as if he just asked the stupidest question she’s ever heard in her life.

“I visit him almost every week,” she answers.

Bruce is a bit taken aback by her answer. He knows Stephanie is close to Dick and Tim and even Damian, but he wasn’t aware they were _that_ close. Stephanie doesn’t come around often anymore.

But, Bruce reminds himself, just because she avoids him most days doesn’t mean she avoids the others. He can’t remember when things became so strained between the two of them. Their relationship has never been easy, and he can begrudgingly admit that he’s to blame for the way he treated her when she was Robin. But this is the first civilized conversation they’ve had in a long time. And its been even longer since they’ve seen each other out of uniform.

Bruce rarely sees Dick outside of patrol either. He pops in and out of the manor on occasion, but Bruce doesn’t really _see_ him. He’s there to visit Damian or Alfred or to give him updates on a case while Bruce’s eyes are glued to his computer. There’s rarely so much as a “how are you doing?” exchanged between the two of them. It’s been this way for months. This is only the third time he can remember visiting Dick’s apartment. He’s just... never seen a reason to visit before.

And he’s _never_ visited Tim’s apartment. Tim has never invited him over. When Tim wants to see him, he comes to the manor. But those visits have been few and far between these days.

“Hey, look what I found!” Stephanie exclaims.

Bruce whips his head around so fast it’s a wonder he didn’t break his neck. Stephanie is sorting through the drawer of Dick’s end table, pulling a small card out from a stack of papers.

“It’s a business card,” she tells him, squinting at it. “Looks like it’s for a therapist.”

Bruce strides across the room, taking the card from her and scrutinizing it.

_Dr. Augustin Cartwright_

_Counselor_

_Specializing in trauma_

“Dr. Cartwright...” he reads out. “I didn’t know he was seeing a therapist.”

Dick never mentioned he was even _considering_ seeing a therapist. Bruce didn’t even have an inkling that he might need one. He seemed like his normal self the last time the two spoke; upbeat, smiling, energetic. That was, until their conversation devolved into an argument. Then he’d been enraged, hurling spiteful words at him and storming out in a fury. But that was par for the course when he and Dick fought. Dick is one of the kindest, gentlest people Bruce has ever known, on par with Clark Kent, but his temper is a beast that no one wants to rouse

He had _thought_ they made up after that fight, though. A few days after it happened, Dick texted him an apology for blowing up the way he did. Bruce thought that was the end of it.

He looks up just in time to see Stephanie roll her eyes, and suddenly he’s not so sure.

“What _do_ you know about him anymore?” she asks.

Her words sting like a slap in the face.

“Dick is my son,” he says, keeping his tone even. “Just because I’m not aware of everything that goes on his personal life doesn’t mean I don’t know him.”

Stephanie raises an eyebrow at him. None of his Robins have ever had a problem challenging him, but Stephanie seems to do so every chance she gets. Sometimes he can begrudgingly appreciate her for it – she doesn’t hesitate to let him know when he’s making a foolish decision. But he’s not looking to take constructive criticism right now.

“Would it _kill_ you to shoot him a text once in a while?” she asks exasperatedly. “Maybe give him a call to talk about something other than a case? You know, like a _normal_ father?”

Bruce is ashamed to admit that he can’t think of the last time he called Dick. Or Tim. Or Jason. Or Cassandra, for that matter. He’s made hundreds of excuses for himself; his kids are always busy, _he’s_ always busy, they would reach out first if they wanted to speak to him. They were all such poor, _dumb_ excuses he used to cloak the fact that he’s a coward.

He never picked up that phone and sent the first text because he was afraid none of them would respond.

“I’m not a normal father,” he replies simply. “This isn’t a normal family.”

She scoffs.

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

Bruce turns his back on the conversation, busying himself with searching through Dick’s stack of unopened mail. Nothing jumps out at him immediately; an electricity bill, a phone bill, a water bill...

A bill from his _therapist._

“What else did I not know?” he whispers to himself, hoping that Stephanie won’t hear.

But of course, she does.

“I think that’s up to Dick to tell you when he gets back,” she declares.

He sighs and sets the mail down, turning around to face her.

“Will you at least tell me if he’s doing well?” he asks, sounding desperate to his own ears.

Stephanie’s expression softens just a bit, and Bruce hates it. He doesn’t want her sympathy. He doesn’t deserve it. It’s his own fault that his relationship with his children has been so strained these past few months. He’s been too stubborn, too stuck in his ways, to see that he was pushing away the people he loves most. Only Cassandra seems not to harbor any resentment towards him, but he knows it’s her unusually strong sense of compassion and effervescent kindness that makes her forgive Bruce for his shortcomings.

“It really has been a long time since you two spoke, huh?” Stephanie murmurs.

“Not really,” he insists. “I’d say it’s been no more than a week, maybe a week and a half at most.”

She rolls her eyes.

“What did you guys fight about this time?”

He shuts his eyes, remembering the latest blow out fight that caused Dick to storm out on him. It’d been a bad one. Not the worst they ever had; that title was reserved for the falling out they had after he fired him as Robin. But this fight was bad enough to make Dick rattle off a laundry list of all Bruce’s faults and all his grievances with him. Right before Dick walked out, he turned to Bruce with a stone-cold expression and said,

_“Sometimes I wonder if we were better off when we thought you were dead.”_

_That_ had hurt worse than any gunshot wound or knife between the ribs ever could.

“Damian,” Bruce admits.

A tiny grin plays on Stephanie’s lips.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “You and Damian had another argument, and Dick doesn’t approve of the way you handled it.”

He hates how right she is. Damian had offered himself up to some of Penguin’s goons in exchange for the release of a mother and her child they were holding at gun point. It was a ploy to take them down, which Damian had no problems doing. But that didn’t stop the panic and absolute _fear_ Bruce felt when he saw a gun being pressed against his son’s head.

The ride back to the cave that night was silent. As soon as they stepped out of the batmobile, all the fear Bruce had felt at nearly losing Damian _again_ caught up with him and he exploded in a tidal wave of anger. He grounded him, benched him for a week, and told him off for pulling such a reckless, stupid move. Of course, Damian being _Damian_ , he argued back just as fiercely. He saw no problem with his actions and used some very colorful words to let him know it.

Whenever Bruce yells at Damian, Damian just yells back louder. Neither of them are willing to give up any ground.

Damian must have called Dick to vent after he marched up to his room that night, because he paid Bruce an unexpected visit the next day. He was on Damian’s side. _As usual_. The punishment was too harsh, he said. He thought Bruce shouldn’t have blown up and should have sat him down and explained why what he did was wrong instead. Bruce agreed that he shouldn’t have lost his temper the way he did, but he disagreed with Dick’s belief that his punishment was too harsh. Damian would never learn if there weren’t consequences for his actions.

He’s not sure how their discussion descended into an all out fight. It happened in the blink of an eye. One minute Dick was trying to tell him how to parent his son, and the next, they were screaming at each other.

Now Bruce is beginning to think he was the one in the wrong the whole time. He wishes he could go back and time and take it all back, so that his last interaction with his oldest son wasn’t an argument.

 _It won’t be the last time I see him,_ he reminds himself. _I’m going to find him. I’m going to find them all._

“Something like that,” Bruce says curtly.

Stephanie goes back to searching through the drawer, but Bruce can sense she’s not letting the subject drop just yet. She’s been infuriatingly stubborn for as long as he’s known her.

“I don’t even have to know what happened to know I’m on Dick’s side,” she declares.

Bruce thought as much.

She sighs and slams the drawer shut, moving on to crouch down next to Dick’s couch. Bruce doubts she’ll find anything under there either.

“You know, you _could_ be a bit easier on Damian,” she sighs, reaching a hand out to grope around under the couch. “He really is a good kid, and he tries so hard to make you proud.”

Bruce stiffens. Dick has told him the exact same thing countless times.

 _‘He’s a sensitive kid deep down’,_ he said once. _‘He thinks he needs to prove himself to you or else you won’t have any use for him anymore.’_

He wishes he had listened. No one knows Damian better than Dick. He _raised_ the boy for nearly an entire year, when Bruce was “dead” and Damian was at his worst. Damian trusts Dick in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else, including Bruce.

Sometimes he’s jealous the bond they have. Bruce wishes his own relationship with Damian could be so comfortable, so effortless. He sees the look of admiration in Damian’s eyes when he looks at his oldest brother and Bruce wishes he would look at him the same way. But they’re too much alike, Dick says. That’s why they clash so much.

Dick may think Damian is a carbon copy of him, but Bruce has never had more trouble understanding someone in his entire life.

“I know that,” he says through gritted teeth.

Stephanie must have had no luck searching under the couch, because she picks herself up off the floor and dusts off her knees before throwing Bruce a pointed look.

“Then act like it.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Do you have any more critiques of my parenting that you’d like to share with me?” he snaps.

Stephanie purses her lips and cocks her head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought.

“Now that you mention it, you _could_ talk to Tim and Jason more too,” she suggests.

For a few shameful moments, Bruce can’t even remember the last time he saw Jason. Maybe it has been a few weeks. Maybe a month. He and Jason rarely cross paths on the job anymore, and he comes by the manor even less. When he does, it’s usually to visit Alfred, not Bruce. _That_ cuts deeper than he would ever admit.

Tim hadn’t reached out to him in weeks, but Dick told Bruce before their fight that he hadn’t been in contact with him either. Red Robin was still being spotted almost every night, so Bruce knew Tim was okay. He did this occasionally; went off the grid, ignored texts and calls. He always came out of it eventually, so Bruce never thought it was much cause for concern.

Maybe if he hadn’t brushed off Tim’s behavior, or if he’d tried harder to connect with Jason, or if he had been the first to apologize to Dick, or if he hadn’t been so harsh on Damian, they would all be safe right now.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose I could.”

A few moments of tense silence pass between them before Stephanie breaks it with a sigh.

“Look, Bruce, I’m not here to fight with you. I just... I want to make sure things are better when they come back.”

Bruce and Stephanie may disagree on many things, but they’re both here for the same reason.

“I... I understand,” murmurs.

A crackling sound in his ear signals an incoming message on his comm. He silently thanks whatever deity that may exist for having such perfect timing.

“Oracle to B,” the voice calls.

“Go ahead, Oracle,” he barks into the comm.

Stephanie raises an eyebrow, silently asking what’s going on. Bruce holds a hand up to her in a gesture that says “wait a minute”.

“Both of you need to come back to the cave,” Barbara says, urgency in her voice. “I dug up something you might find interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what it may seem like, I don't think Bruce is a bad father (I ignore when DC makes him hit his kids because comics are never consistent with characterization and it makes me angry), but sometimes he has a strained relationship with them. But he's trying and that's where it's at!!! This account is pro Bruce being a good dad who just messes up sometimes!


	10. Damian II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah another Damian chapter! Idk if you guys could tell but he's my favorite character. But don't worry, we're gonna get more Tim and Jason action later. I don't wanna neglect those two. Also, I hopped back a little in time for this chapter. Bruce's chapter was at 110 hours to find them, but this one is at 118 hours, right after Dick punched Tim. I hope you guys enjoy!

**_118_ **

Damian hasn’t been able to take his eyes off Drake since he fell to Grayson’s punch. Neither can Grayson, it seems. They’re both staring at his still form sprawled across the tile, blood gushing from his nose and mouth. The way his body is positioned, half curled up with his limbs under him, makes it look like he could be sleeping.

Or dead.

But the rise and fall of his chest assures Damian that he’s still very much alive. A paranoid voice deep in his head whispers that he can’t take his eyes off him for even a second, or he might stop breathing while no one is looking.

A year ago, Damian wouldn’t have cared. Not in the slightest. A year ago, _he_ might have inflicted the exact same injuries. But Damian isn’t the person he was a year ago, and neither is Drake.

He outstretches his hand minutely before dropping it. There’s nothing he can do for Drake, just like there’s nothing he can do for Todd. Or Grayson. Or himself, for that matter. For the first time in a long time, he feels helpless. He swears he can still feel that liquid flowing through his veins, burning like acid. It was... excruciating. When it was happening, all he could think about was how much he wished it could end, even if that meant death. It was a cowardly wish made during a moment of weakness. But in that moment, when he was writhing on the ground in pain, nothing would have made him happier.

He shakes those dark thoughts away when a clatter signals something dropping down the dumbwaiter. Both his and Grayson’s eyes snap up, staring at it. Damian can feel the tension in the air as Grayson hesitantly scoots towards it, as if expecting it to be a trick. He reaches inside and brings out another metal tray. Damian spots a drip chamber, PVC tubing, a latex bulb, and other supplies needed for a blood transfusion.

Their abductor is a cruel psychopath, but at least he sticks to his word.

Grayson scoots back over to him, tray in hand and pain written all over his face. Damian wants to tell him that he’s an idiot for feeling guilty, that Drake _asked_ him to punch him, that he may have saved Todd’s life by doing so. But he knows it won’t mean anything. Drake is bloody and unconscious by Grayson’s hand, and there’s nothing Damian can say that will ease that guilt.

Before Grayson can ask, Damian holds out his arm. Grayson hesitates for a moment before grabbing the arm offered to him and gently pushing his sleeve up and wrapping a tourniquet around his upper arm. He pokes around, searching for a vein. Damian wonders if he learned how to do a blood transfusion from watching Pennyworth, or if he’s just guessing as to how it’s done. A sharp, sudden pang of sadness bounces around in his chest. He wishes he was in the cave, ignoring Pennyworth’s disapproving looks as he stiches him up.

“I’m sorry,” Grayson murmurs, pulling out the needle.

Damian looks away as it goes into his skin. As childish as it sounds, he doesn’t want to look at another needle ever again.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he insists, his voice still hoarse. “ _You_ didn’t do this.”

Grayson’s face twists into an almost pained look.

“But I...”

Damian narrows his eyes beneath his mask.

“ _Don’t_.”

They lapse into silence as they go through the motions of drawing Damian’s blood. It crawls down the tube at a snail’s pace, a sign of dehydration. He hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in...

How long has it been? He’s losing track of time in this little room. He hadn’t even noticed how hungry or thirsty he was until now. His throat is so parched it almost feels like its closing up. His stomach is groaning in protest. Surely their captor will give them food and water _eventually_. He doesn’t seem to want them dead; not yet, at least. He wants to keep playing this little game, so he’ll have to keep them alive.

At least, that’s what Damian hopes.

“Robin,” Grayson sighs, holding a nearly full bag of blood in his hands. “I have to ask...”

“You want to know what he did to me,” Damian cuts him off.

Grayson nods solemnly. Damian can tell he doesn’t _want_ to be asking, but he has to. The rest of them have to know what they’re up against, what will happen to them if they crawl into that dumbwaiter. But he doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about it. Of course, it’s difficult to bury the memory when he can still see it playing out in his head.

He inhales a shaky breath, his decision made. Protecting them all wins over his discomfort.

“ _He_ didn’t inflict these injuries, if that is what you’re wondering,” he says.

Grayson raises an eyebrow.

“Is there someone else?” he asks. “An accomplice.”

Damian shakes his head. He almost wishes that was the case, instead of what actually happened. It would have been far less shameful.

“No,” he corrects. “At least, not one that I’ve seen.”

He takes another deep breath, mentally scolding himself to get a grip. What would Father think if he could see him right now? Being so weak? He’s been through far worse during his time with the League. He’s been through actual _death_ , yet this is what gets him choked up and unable to form words?

 _I don’t deserve the Robin mantle,_ a voice in the back of his head whispers.

“I... I did this to myself,” he admits quietly.

Grayson visibly flinches. It causes the needle in Damian’s arm to move around slightly, and he grits his teeth in pain. Grayson doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy staring at him as if he’s just grown a second head.

“ _What?_ ”

There’s no hint of anger or disappointment in Grayson’s voice, just confusion, but Damian wonders if it simmers below the surface. He wonders if Grayson is going to look at him differently once he knows the full story. He _allowed_ it to happen to himself. If he was just stronger, if he had more willpower...

He swallows hard.

“I was taken to a dark room,” he begins. “As soon as the dumbwaiter came to a halt, someone grabbed me and stuck a needle in my neck and injected me with... something.”

 _It hurt,_ he almost adds, but he decides against it. There’s no need to add to his embarrassment.

“Then he said things,” he whispers. “And everything he said became reality. I saw what he told me to see. I felt what he told me to feel.”

He bites down on his lip, trying to keep those traitorous tears at bay.

“And I did what he told me to do.”

Whatever that poison, toxin, what-have-you was, it made him highly suggestible. He was a marionette, and their captor was pulling his strings. When he told him that he was on fire, Damian could feel the flames crawling up his body. When he told him that a horde of bats were descending upon him, he could feel the claws digging into his skin. When he told him to see his greatest fear in front of him, he saw his grandfather reaching out to grab him and take him away.

And that was barely a fraction of what was inflicted upon him; what _he_ himself inflicted. It felt like it lasted for hours. Maybe it did.

“So the cuts, the bruises, the black eye...” Grayson says slowly.

Damian nods.

“All done by my own hand.”

When the haze of the drug wore off and the world came back into focus, Damian had discovered a scalpel in his hand. That explained where he got the puncture wounds. He felt blood underneath his fingernails from scratching himself all over. And he could only assume that the pain in his eye was from his own fist.

 _“Why would I get_ my _hands dirty when I can make you destroy yourselves?”_ a voice asks from above.

Damian cringes at the sound. He _loathes_ that voice. Now when he hears it, all he hears are the words that were barked at him in the dark.

 _‘A sword is being thrust through your chest now,’_ he had said with sick glee. _‘You’re familiar with that pain, aren’t you?’_

Grayson’s expression goes stone cold with fury. It’s a look Damian rarely sees. He quickly unhooks the second bag of Damian’s blood while glaring up at the celling.

“You coward,” he hisses. “He’s a _child_.”

Their kidnapper only laughs. He doesn’t care about Damian’s age, just as he doesn’t care about the rest of them. They’re not people to him. They’re toys, just lab rats in his twisted experiment. And Damian doesn’t want to see what sick game he has in store for them next.

 _“I wonder why it’s the Baby Bat you’re the most protective of?”_ he drawls. _“Is it because he’s the youngest? Is it because he was your Robin?”_

Maybe Damian _should_ be shocked that he knows Grayson was once Batman, but their captor seems to know _everything_ about them. He knows Damian’s past, he knows about his death, he even seems to know his deepest fears. There is nothing that Damian can be sure remains a secret.

There’s a slight pause before their kidnapper’s next words,

_“Or maybe it’s because he’s your son.”_

Damian squints up at the ceiling, confused. He _thought_ the man knew everything about them. So how could he be so glaringly wrong about such an important detail?

“You must not be as good of a detective as I thought,” Grayson scoffs.

 _“Oh, I_ know _the Baby Bat isn’t biologically yours,”_ the voice admits. _“But you see him as a son, don’t you?”_

Damian’s confusion only grows. Of _course_ Grayson doesn’t see him as a son. They share a father. Grayson is his older brother, his mentor, the former Batman to his Robin. _That_ is the extent of their relationship. And he’s sure Grayson doesn’t believe any different.

So he’s surprised to see the subtle twitch of Grayson’s jaw and his lips forming into a grim line.

“That’s ridiculous,” he dismisses.

His voice is strong and even, but Damian knows him well enough to be able to tell that he sounds... unsure. It’s the voice he used when they were still partners, when he would say “I have this under control, Robin” in a situation that he clearly did not have under control.

But what is there to be unsure of?

 _“Is it?”_ the voice mocks him _“_ You _were the one took him as your Robin when Bats was M.I.A. You were his mentor. You were his caregiver. You were his_ father.”

Damian shifts around uncomfortably. Their captor sounds so sure of himself, as if he’s glimpsed into the deepest recesses of Grayson’s mind and ripped out all of his most personal, shameful thoughts. But everything he’s saying is _wrong_. Grayson doesn’t see him as a son. He would have told him if he did. They were partners. Grayson wouldn’t keep such a big secret from him.

He just _wouldn’t_.

“I’m _not_ his father,” Grayson reiterates. “You don’t know anything about him or me.”

Their kidnapper chuckles.

 _“I know everything, Nightwing,”_ he insists _. “I know that a part of you_ hated _it when Bats came back because it meant you had to give up your bird. He didn’t deserve to swoop in and claim the title of Baby Bat’s father.”_

Damian looks at Grayson, searching his face for some kind of sign that this is all lies, that their captor is just playing mind games with them. But all he finds in the downturn of Grayson’s lips and the furrow of his brow is guilt.

 _“It was you who raised him and curbed those killer instincts, not Bats,”_ the voice continues, unrelenting. _“And you hate yourself for thinking that way. You know it’s a betrayal to Bats.”_

Grayson shakes his head rapidly, biting down hard on his lip. He’s coming apart at the seams, Damian can tell. But for what reason, Damian wonders? Nothing their captor is saying is true. It _can’t be true_.

“You’re wrong,” Grayson declares, mirroring Damian’s thoughts. “You’re wrong.”

 _“You almost told him no, didn’t you?”_ he laughs. _“You almost kept the boy for yourself, because you know that deep down, he’s_ your _son, not his.”_

Damian gets the sudden urge to clap his hands over his ears like a child. He doesn’t want to hear these lies.

“Shut up,” Grayson mumbles.

Of course, his pleas fall on deaf ears.

 _“You hate acting like none of it ever happened, like you didn’t view him as your son,”_ their captor prods. _“But you still do. You don’t let yourself voice it, but you_ still _think he’s yours and it eats you up inside.”_

Grayson buries his hands in his hair, pulling on it as if it will somehow block out the accusations being hurled at him. And it _terrifies_ Damian. He’s never seen the older man so shaken, especially not by the supposed lies of a mad man.

A thought that Damian won’t give voice to tells him that he wouldn’t be acting this way if they were lies.

“SHUT UP!” Grayson bellows.

Their abductor just laughs again.

_“I’ll leave you and the Baby Bat to it.”_

Then the voice is gone, and Damian and Grayson are alone. At least, as alone as they can be with Todd and Drake unconscious next to them and their captor no doubt listening in.

“Is it true?” Damian asks, though he knows the answer.

Grayson looks away, letting out a shaky breath.

“I...” he whispers. “Y-Yes, it’s all true.”

Damian knew it, but hearing it coming from Grayson’s mouth hits him harder than anything that psychopath could say to either of them. It’s indelible now. There’s no going back.

He purses his lips and nods curtly, though he knows Grayson isn’t looking.

“I see.”

 _That_ finally gets Grayson to look over at him. Even with the mask covering his eyes, Damian can see the guilt and sadness and pain written all over Grayson’s face. Now Damian is the one to look away.

“Robin, I’m so sorry,” Grayson apologizes. “I’m so, _so_ sorry. I never wanted you to know. I was so ashamed, I...”

“I understand,” Damian cuts him off. But it’s a lie. He doesn’t understand. He _can’t_ understand why Grayson would keep this from, and he can’t understand why it makes him feel so... confused. The emotions it sparks in him are too messy and complicated to grasp, like a big ball of knotted yarn. He can’t even begin to untangle it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers.

Grayson brings a hand up to run it through his hair. A nervous habit of his, Damian recognizes. He knows all of Grayson’s habits, because he knows _Grayson_. He knows him better than he knows anyone, perhaps better than he knows himself.

At least, he _thought_ he did.

“I didn’t want to do anything to hurt your relationship with B,” Grayson rushes to say. “ _He’s_ your real father. What I feel... it doesn’t matter.”

Damian shoots him a pointed look that says, _‘you’re a fool, Grayson’_.

“You and I both know that is a lie.”

Grayson runs a hand down the side of his face, looking exhausted. He seems to have aged years in the time they’ve been stuck in this little room. And why shouldn’t he? Every hour here feels like a year.

“I know, and there’s no use in lying to you anymore,” he sighs. “Before your dad came back, I was considering legally adopting you.”

Damian flinches. He never knew that, never even had an inkling. If Grayson started to draft up the papers before Father came back, then he must have hidden them well because Damian never saw them.

He wonders what he would have done if he _did_ see them. He can’t say with all certainty that he would have objected to it, and that makes him sick with guilt.

“Does Father know?” he asks.

“No,” Grayson admits. “I didn’t want to hurt him too.”

 _But you still hurt_ me _,_ Damian thinks bitterly.

“He loves you, Robin,” Grayson insists. “And I know it hurts him that he couldn’t be there for you for so long. I didn’t want to rub it in.”

Damian knows his father loves him. He used to be unsure. He never quite felt like he fit into his father’s family, amongst his _chosen_ children. Father’s... _emotional distance_ , to put it mildly, only confused him further. Even as they progressed in their partnership as Batman and Robin and learned how to understand each other a little better, Damian still couldn’t be sure that his father kept him around out of love and not just a sense of obligation.

It wasn’t until he woke up in his father’s arms after being resurrected that he _knew_ he was loved. His father went to Hell and back for him, along with Todd, Gordon, and even Drake. After that day, Damian never questioned his father’s love. Things got better after that. They grew closer. Father wasn’t as difficult to reach as he used to be, and he threw around more “I’m proud of you”s and casual squeezes on the shoulder, even the rare hug. He’s still not the physically affectionate type, not that Damian minds it much. But while he no longer doubts Father’s love, he’s never doubted Grayson’s in the first place.

He loves his father, but he loved Grayson first. And that counts for something.

“This...” he murmurs, struggling to find the words. “This changes everything. You must know that.”

Grayson nods solemnly.

“I know.”

Then all the sudden, it’s over. They let the subject drop and Grayson silently slides over to Jason, readying him for the blood transfusion. But Damian _can’t_ let this drop. He fears he may never stop thinking about it, agonizing over it.

He thinks the poison in his veins hurt less than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear I'm not saying Bruce ISN'T Damian's dad. I'm just saying so is Dick. I'm pro Bruce and Dick co-parenting lol.  
> Also I did my best in looking up how to give a blood transfusion but I still don't understand medicine. I'm a psych major for a reason. Pls don't come at me for any inaccuracies. Just suspend your disbelief for a second.


End file.
